


Don't Tell Me If I'm Dying (Cause I Don't Want to Know)

by lizzehboo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Death, F/M, Friendship, Haunting, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Anguish, Multi, Panic Attacks, Sick Stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:02:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 47,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzehboo/pseuds/lizzehboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Season 3B Alternative)</p>
<p>Dealing with inner darkness is tough enough without all the other crazy stuff going down in Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Prologue**

It's snowing.

That's weird for California, even in the winter.

And okay, it's not, like, _snowing_ snowing. There are flurries fluttering down from the dark clouds above. The bright white moon peeks through said clouds, and all together, everything looks a little ominous for a snowy winter's night. Stiles turns down the radio, the dull roar of “Jingle Bell Rock” dropping down low enough that the voice is barely audible in his Jeep's speakers. He squints out at the dimly lit road, his leg twitching in time with the vibrations of his phone, nestled in his pocket.

It's late.

Danny knows how to throw a fucking Christmas party. Stiles actually had an _awesome_ time, but he's well aware of how long it took him to sober up enough to leave. Gotta be safe, his father had drilled that into his head enough times for it to stick. He'd offered rides to some of the slightly more intoxicated bunch, but most just crashed all over Danny's living room. Whatever. Stiles isn't a big fan of crowds full of drunk people. He's not really a huge fan of crowds anymore, period.

It's complicated. Deaton warned that going to the Nemeton would create a darkness in his heart. Some days he feels it more than others, particularly when the trees are wilting and the air bites cold. He doesn't know about the others. He tries not to talk about it. Or think about it. They've had enough darkness in their lives **,** and Stiles is happy enoughto keep quiet and enjoy the holidays. He is curious **,** though, wondersif they're feeling the pull a little more.

He cranks the heat in his Jeep and grumbles because he's fucking cold. It doesn't matter how high his heater is, he still feels like the freezing temperature is slipping through the cracks. His mother had always called him a boy of summer, and it was true enough. He'd rather feel the warmth of the sun in his veins than the chill of a season so dead. He grimaces, sighing, swearing he can see his breath as he finally yanks his buzzing phone out of his pocket.

“Hello?” He speaks a little gruffly, his voice a bit raw from his earlier alcohol consumption.

“Merry Christmas, nutcase. I've been trying to get a hold of you all day.”

Stiles feels a smile slide across his lips. “Well hey there, Cora. Where are you guys at now? Still in Michigan?”

“No, we're in Nevada now.”

Derek and Cora had left no returning address, but sometimes she pops in to keep in touch, or she sends a phone call or a post card. The distance from Beacon Hills has done wonders for her, and, Stiles assumes, for Derek as well. He hears such relaxation in her voice. They've been traveling pretty nonstop, from what Stiles can tell. They're never in the same place when Cora calls or writes. Stiles isn't really sure why. Perhaps Derek likes to keep moving to stay under the radar. There are hunters outside of Beacon Hills that aren't as friendly or understanding as the Argents, and Stiles can only guess upon what else lurks out in the darkness. He's just glad that they're living their lives. The Hale family has had way too much heartbreak.

“Ooh, Vegas?”

“Not yet,” Cora says, sounding amused. She's not much of the laughing type, but Stiles can tell when she's happy. He slides carefully around a curve in the road. “I've been trying to get Derek to take me for days, but he won't. He says I'm not technically old enough to get into anything fun anyway.”

“How is the ol' Sourwolf? I've heard plenty from you, but he's been nothing but radio silence.”

Speaking of the radio, Stiles raises an eyebrow at the sudden static leaking through his speakers. He changes the station to some classic rock, and it cranks out a couple of lines from Rush before fading off into static again. Weird.

“He's Derek,” Cora says on the other end, “He's never gonna change. But I think he's happier.” There's a long moment. “Beacon Hills just carries a lot of sadness, y'know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, knowing all too well. He's come face-to-face with his own sadness. Lately, it feels like it's clinging to him, making his skin feel heavy, his bones brittle, ready to break. “I guess that means you guys aren't gonna come for a visit then?”

“I'm not really sure where Derek wants to go next. Maybe Seattle. I've been taking all my classes online, so we can travel. I guess he just wants to see the country.”

“It's a good distraction, I guess,” Stiles muses, swallowing thickly. There's a sudden onset of nausea in his stomach and he blinks a few times, trying to will it away. He wonders if maybe some of the hors d'oeurves he chowed down on are coming back to get him.

“You okay? You're fading in and out.”

“What?” Stiles glances outside, and there's a storm brewing. Lightning cracks across the sky and the trees start swaying violently around him. Sleet drops from the sky and Stiles's heart jumps in his chest. “Y-yeah. Yeah. Just a storm.” His chest feels tight and he takes a hollow breath. He's not well. He's getting less and less well by the second. “Maybe I should call you baa--” Stiles's voice leaves him and he lurches, his phone toppling from his hand, and he's sick, spewing all over the steering wheel. He groans a little, bile burning in his throat, still a little bubbly from his beers.

“Stiles?” Cora calls out from somewhere in the passenger seat floorboard. “Stiles? You there?”

He looks up to see a tree plummeting into the street. He slams on his brakes, and the car skids, tires screeching as they try to find purchase. His Jeep slides violently as he fights to keep control. His chest feels like it's full of lead and he smacks into the steering wheel, the Jeep jarring to a halt.

“Stiles?! Stiles!” Cora's voice is tinny and faraway, mixing in with the ringing in Stiles's ears.

He tries to breathe. His vision spots with black but his eyes dart for the source of the downed tree, because he fucking _knows_ better than to assume a storm is the cause for a little tree damage. He's lucky that his vehicle didn't make impact, but he doesn't feel like he's avoided anything. His body hurts, and he feels like the world's closing in on him.

Something's wrong. Something is very wrong.

He squints out the windshield at the splintered bark, illuminated by his headlights but growing more and more dim. What? Stiles shakily reaches for the door handle, toppling out of the side of the Jeep. He hits the pavement with a thud, his limbs heavy and numb. His chest aches terribly. He wheezes, grappling at the metal structure of the vehicle to pull himself up. Then he hears it.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

No.

A flatline.

No. _No no no_.

He hears the rattle of a final breath escaping a body, and the bitter wind cuts through his coat, ice prickling through his insides like frost on a windshield. He clutches the door to his Jeep, his cheek pressed to the freezing metal surface, tears stinging his eyes. He feels the darkness around him, threatening to swallow him whole, threatening to leave himfloating by his mother's deathbed for the rest of time.

Then another tree falls, this time slamming straight down on top of the Jeep. Stiles screams, falling back, sleet and exploded wood cutting into his face. A roar fills his ears, guttural and very not-human. He cranes his neck to the source of the noise, trembling, terror running through his veins. 

Suddenly, his senses are in overdrive. He can feel the blood trickling down the side of his face, the ice hardening in his hair, the splinters prickling all over, like he's being eaten alive by ants. He's staring down bright red eyes, and his nose is overwhelmed with the noxious scent of death and destruction. The breath in his face is nothing less than warm, rotting flesh. He feels sick all over again.

The beast is hulking, but it's not a werewolf. No way. He's seen an alpha wolf and it was nothing compared to this. This thing is as big as a fucking house, and ten times more rabid, spittle dripping from it's maw. The sounds of twisted metal overwhelms him as he ducks away from the giant, razor-sharp claws, stumbling back over one of the fallen trunks, ducking behind the branches. He's shaking too hard. He can't keep moving. He wants to run so bad, but it's like he's being weighed down onto the earth beneath him. 

He hears that death rattle in his ears again and he shakes his head, forces himself to his feet, and runs into the woods. Ice crunches under him as he slips and slides over piles of fallen, wetleaves. He curses when he remembersthat his phone is still lying in his floorboard, probably completely destroyed. His senses shut off suddenly, leaving him utterly numb.

He still hears her breathing in his ear.

He gets flashes of Boyd's crumpled form, bleeding out on the floor of Derek's loft, swathed in chilly water, reflecting the moon in an eerie glow.

He sees Scott standing in a pool of gasoline.

He sees Lydia with a cord around her throat.

He sees his dad, taken.

Stiles falters, falling, rolling down a giant hill, but he doesn't feel the ground bruising him, doesn't feel the twigs ripping into his skin. He squeezes his eyes shut--

Everything goes black.

He's being eaten alive. He can feel the shadows claiming him.

Then sirens.

He hears sirens.

He opens his eyes.

It's snowing.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for betaing!

**Chapter One**

It's an 11-79. Car accident. Ambulance called.

Light blue Jeep, CJ-5, 1983, completely mangled against a tree. California plates: 6QGM387.

That's all the info Sheriff Stilinski has, and, frankly, all the info he needs to be completely devastated.

He actually doesn't even have to hear the call to know something is wrong. He's gliding along the streets in the cruiser, having just shut down a couple of Christmas party disturbances. Drunkards can be annoying, to say the least. But he actually stomps on the brakes when the dread hits him, pulling to the side of the road with a gasp, like maybe he's having a heart attack or something. He has a memory of Claudia, glowing and smiling down at their baby boy, cradled in her arms. He remembers making a pact to protect that kid at all costs.

Then he gets the radio call.

When he pulls up onto the scene, his hands are shaking. Officers flock to him, full of questions, of announcements, but they are nothing but a dull roar in his head, blurry faces sliding through his vision as he pushes them away. He sees the mangled and twisted metal of the Jeep, nearly unrecognizable if not for the light blue color and the dented license plate hanging from the front bumper. He can see a smear of blood on the door, or what's left of the door, now that there's a giant tree resting on top of it.

His knees wobble and threaten to buckle, but he holds, steadfast and stolid. “Where's my son?” he commands. “Where is my _son?!_ ”

One of his officers creeps out of the woods, and he's carrying... He's carrying...

Sheriff Stilinski pushes everyone away and runs for his son, pulling the limp, colorless body from the deputy's arms. His skin is freezing cold, even with the air being so mild, and there's ice melting in his hair. That doesn't make sense. It doesn't--

He doesn't care. His brain gives way to his heart and he clutches his son to his chest, listening closely.

His heart's beating. He's breathing. _Thank God_. Then Stiles is taken from him again by the EMTs, putting him on the gurney and strapping him down. Sheriff Stilinski watches, helplessly reaching for him.

“We found him about 500 feet away,” the deputy says, and it whirls around in Stilinski's brain, never quite hitting any synapses. “Unconscious. He had aspirated, but we managed to clear his airway. We don't know why he's so cold, though--”

Stilinski feels woozy. He needs to sit down. He _really_ needs to sit down. Because his son is unconscious, and he's had to have his airway cleared, and he's _cold._ Stiles is his _son._ He's not supposed to be so cold. He clambers into the ambulance without a word, clutching his son's chilly hand in both of his own.

“Stiles. Stiles, I'm here,” he tries to keep his voice strong, because he's out of words for this moment. This is never a moment he wanted, never something he wanted to face _again_.

There's a pull in him. He feels the warmth in his hands, watches as Stiles's color starts to normalize a little bit.

His fingers fold around his father's hand.

Sheriff Stilinski remembers to breathe.

Melissa is waiting for them when they get to the hospital.

“I heard about the accident,” she explains, a little breathless as the gurney is rushed by her. She puts a hand on Stilinski's arm. “Are you okay? Is Stiles okay?”

“He's alive,” he says dazedly, because it'sall he knows, but the comfort Melissa gives him is enough to keep him focused.

“God, your hands are like ice,” she observes, taking both of his hands in hers. He squeezes her fingers, and she gives him a warm, empathetic smile.

“I gotta get in there, Melissa. I--”

“Go,” she says, “I'll be right behind you.”

He heads for the door, but then he hesitates. “Melissa.”

“Yeah?”

“Call Scott.”

…

Scott isn't asleep, though no one would know by looking at him. He lies flat and still, palms facing upward as he floats somewhere between the worlds of consciousness and unconsciousness. He can feel his palms tingle, the slow thrum of his heartbeat in his veins. He can see the darkness. He could grasp it if he just reached out, but he doesn't. He furrows his brow and prepares for combat.

He does this every evening before he rests. When he's alone, the darkness threatens to swallow him, but he's learned to fight it. He envisions his loved ones, takes in their warmth, and sends it outward, piercing it with light, and he's winning and earning his restful night of sleep. The winter months are harder. As the trees wither and die, so does the natural energy that comes with them, but Scott has his pack and he uses their presence to stay in control. Sometimes, if it gets difficult, he will concentrate, and he'll hear their heartbeats, soft, murmuring little rhythms, tucked away in respective points in Beacon Hills. He listens to them like a low, tribal drum beat, let's them dance him away from the melancholy in his soul.

And he's okay.

All is well.

He sighs deeply, relaxed, starting to doze--

Then his phone rings.

He opens his eyes, reaching for it blindly, pressing it to his ear.

“Hello?” he answers, his voice a little low and husky, sleep lingering on his tongue.

“Scott.” It's his mother. He doesn't need werewolf hearing to perceive the distress in her voice. He sits up, fear making his stomach clench. “Scott, something's happened.”

Scott kicks off the bed and onto his feet in a second, slipping into his shoes quickly. He listens. He feels out the town, scans over everything, all the dark corners and abandoned buildings. Something _is_ out of whack. The air doesn't feel right around him.

“What's wrong?”

“Stiles. He was in a car accident.” Scott is on his feet, but unable to move. He's frozen, the words washing over him.

He searches for Stiles's heartbeat. Only when he finds it is he able to speak. “Is he-- Mom, is he okay?”

“He's alive. That's all I know. His father told me to call you.” There's a long moment. “I'm flipping through some of the photos from the scene... you need to see these.”

Scott throws on a jacket and rushes down the stairs. He almost forgets to close the front door in his haste. He straddles his bike and cranks it up, barely feeling the air against his face as he races down the road. The air smells different. It smells like blood.

Not good.

Definitely not good.

He tries to focus on getting to the hospital first. His pack is most important. He leaves his bike and runs through the front doors, yelling out for his mother, not really caring who he disturbs in the process.

“Scott!” She rushes to him and wraps her arms around him, almost like she's thanking whatever's out there that her son is currently in front of her, rather than behind the emergency room doors.

“Is he okay? Mom, is he _okay?!_ ” Scott tries to push the panic out of his voice and fails. Now that his nose is overwhelmed with the scent of disinfectant, it starts to sink in that Stiles is _here_ , and he's hurt, and everything inside of him is screaming.

He feels cold at the idea of losing Stiles. So fucking cold. He actually shivers.

“He's okay. He's okay,” she assures. “Scott. Scott, listen. I need you to look at this.” She holds up a cell phone that doesn't belong to her and flicks through the photos. Scott sucks in a breath at the sight of them.

“Those trees... They weren't knocked down.”

…

“They were ripped from the ground,” Allison's dad states, eying the downed timber. The scene is taped off and littered with officers, so they're not able to get close.

Allison hugs her arms close to her, chilled, staring down Stiles's Jeep. The call from Scott had been so sudden. Still, they were able to make a pretty decent excuse fairly easily, telling the officers they've been traveling for the holidays and just happened upon the scene in front of them. Her dad looks irritated at all the police interaction. It's mucking up what little they have to work with, destroying evidence and tracks of whatever it was that was responsible for attacking Stiles.

“What do you think it was? Alpha wolf?” Allison doesn't necessarily agree with Scott and Derek **in** letting Deucalion go. He's dangerous, and she's a little suspicious that he might be involved.

“No. Too big. Look at the claw marks on the Jeep.”

She swallows, her jaw clenching. Bigger than an Alpha wolf? That's not going to be an easy victory. She reaches for her dad's arm when another chill runs through her. She feels like she's being scrutinized, like her mother is staring her down from somewhere in those woods. The darknessfeels like a threat. She slides her palm into her father's and relaxes, that edge of concern ebbing away for the time being.

She's beginning to hate winter.

It's late. The police will be around for at least another couple of hours. There's not much they can do until they're gone.

“I'm gonna have to ask you two to step back,” one of the officers requests, trailing up to the tape.

“What happened here?” she asks absently, ignoring him, staring down the Jeep.

“Run of the mill DUI. Please carry on. We've set up a detour.”

“Thank you,” her father cuts in before Allison can argue, eyes sliding over to her briefly before giving the officer a pleasant smile. “We'll be on our way.”

They clamber back into the SUV and Allison cranks the heat, much to her father's confusion. “Dad? Why are we leaving? You don't want to get a closer look?”

“Whatever it was that did that has moved on. We need to find it before it finds someone else.” He puts the car in reverse and pauses, his eyes scanning the treeline, puzzled.

“Dad?”

“What is that?” 

A figure stumbles into the lights of the scene, young and a little short. He's a stocky fellow with dark hair and brown eyes, and he's covered in blood.

“Help,” he groans, “Help...” 

The guy topples to the ground and Allison is already out of the car running for him.

“Allison! Allison come back!”

“Get back across the line! Hey!”

She puts a hand on the kid's back, feels the damp blood on his hooded sweat shirt, the heaving breaths he takes. He can't be any older than fifteen or sixteen, and he looks like he's been through the ringer.

“Hey, are you okay?”

He looks up at her with fear in his eyes, grips her arms so tightly it hurts. “It's chasing me! It's trying to kill me!”

“What is?”

Allison gets yanked up by an officer and she pulls violently at his grip. “Let go of me!” She threatens, and it's all she has not to attack. She feels the anger boil in her, feral, ready to kill, and the look she gives the officer is enough to at least break his stony facade. He releases her.

The young fellow at her feet cowers a little, bowing his head. Allison softens, kneeling back down. “What's your name?”

“A—Artie... Barrett...” he stammers, trembling. He's petrified.

“It's okay, Artie. You're safe now,” she says gently. She looks to the treeline, where he came from, and frowns.

There's a broken arrow in a tree in the distance.

It's not hers.

…

Stiles gasps, choking on air. Nowadays, when he wakes up, it's always like he's breaking through the surface of an icy grave. It's pretty much the worst way to wake up ever.

Then the pain sets in, a pounding in his ribs, and he groans, taking a shallow breath.

He's in a hospital.

He hates hospitals.

They smell like death and hand sanitizer, and there are needles everywhere. Yet worse is that literallyevery single inch of the fucking building reminds him of his mother.

Stiles cannot think of a lot of good things that have happened to him in this building. He remembers Lydia, bloodied and bruised from Peter's claws, quiet in the crisp white sheets. He remembers his wooden bat splintering against Ethan and Aiden's creepy concoction's skull. He remembers slapping Derek in the elevator, desperate to get him to awake before the cops came running through. He remembers sitting in the waiting room, waiting to tell his dad the news... and not having any idea of how to do it. He remembers feeling powerless for having not been able to keep her alive, not even long enough for either of them to see each other one last time. It's all just one long line of misery that he doesn't want to think about.

He's freezing.

“Hey.”

His eyes dart to his left, and he sees Lydia, sitting rather demurely by his bedside. The image of her immediately calms him and pulls him back from the brink. The girl who put him under. The girl who can bring him back. The girl that flirts with death.

“Where's my dad?” he croaks, and he's shocked at how raw his voice sounds.

He struggles to remember what happened, but it's fuzzy. His entire body feels like it's floating, and he thinks maybe it's the pain meds or something.

“He's at the vending machine. He'll be right back.”

Stiles frowns. He doesn't want his dad choking down vending machine food. It's not healthy. Not that being in a hospital bed is the definition of health.

“What time is it?” he asks instead.

“It's ten in the morning,” Lydia responds. “Be careful. You've got a couple of broken ribs.”

Stiles touches the offending spots, tender and painful, and he grimaces.

“Stiles, what happened? What attacked you? What made you hit the tree?”

Stiles stares at the ceiling and tries to remember. “N-nothing made me hit the tree... I didn't... I didn't hit the tree.” His head aches with the effort. “I was... I was talking to Cora, and then I started feeling sick. And the tree fell.” He runs a hand down his face. “I don't... those eyes... those... eyes...”

The fear tightens in his chest and he smells that grotesque, rotting breath, the image of the hulking, horrifying beast playing before his eyes. The darkness threatens to overwhelm him, to shield him from danger, but then Lydia's hand is on his wrist, and he's back.

“What eyes?”

“I don't... I have no idea what it was.”

Stiles fights the sudden urge to cry. His body is exhausted and he's all kinds of strung out. He _knows_ he needs to get it together, but he's scrambling for purchase in his own mind.

“Don't overdo it,” Lydia coos. “We'll find out in time, okay?”

Stiles sighs, settling into his pillows, frustrated with himself. “What about Cora?”

“What about Cora?”

“I was on the phone with her. Does she know I'm okay?”

“I, uh, I don't know. Your dad said that the 911 call came from out of state. Maybe that was her?”

“You don't have to spend your free time with me, Lydia,” he says softly.

“Oh shut up,” Lydia snips, “Don't even start that depressive talk, Stiles. You know I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be. Also, on that note, thanks for scaring us all to death, asshole.”

Stiles smiles at her and wraps his fingers around hers. “I'm sorry. I'm assuming Scott is off chasing my attacker?”

“He's asleep in the waiting room. Only two visitors at a time. I told him it was my turn. Last I checked he was snoozing away. But now that you're up, he's probably--”

“STILES?!” Scott slams the door open, relief all over his features.

“Hey dude.”

“I'm so glad you're okay!” He cries out, going in for a pretty painful hug. Stiles swallows and pats Scott's shoulder affectionately. The pain is worth it, definitely when it starts filtering away.

He smiles into Scott's shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artie Bernard is based off of [Daniel Magder](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0535805/).


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Two**

Stiles presses his fingers into the sore spot in his torso, moving a little slower than usual as he slides off of the back of Scott's motorcycle. He's a little winded. Scott's actually somewhat of a terrifying driver, and Stiles isn't exactly excited to be back on the road yet. His mind's still a little hazy from the entire ordeal. But the New Year is over and school is back in session, so he has to deal with it.

“You okay?” Scott asks, his face pinched with concern. He hasn't left Stiles's side since the accident, and yes, Stiles loves Scott, loves that Scott loves him too, but he can only take so much of him when he's worked up and worried.

“I'm fine. Just sore. Also, you're a really bad driver, dude.”

Scott doesn't even argue. He just looks sheepish as he grins. “Sorry.”

“You should be.” Stiles doesn't mean it, and Scott knows that. He throws an arm around Stiles's shoulders and they make their way inside. “Man, break was way too short.”

“Considering all the excitement we had at the beginning of the semester, I was actually pretty happy to sit on my ass for a while. You're right. It just wasn't long enough.”

Stiles sighs. “I miss my hunk of junk Jeep,” he whines, hugging his arms close to his chest. It's not extremely cold outside, but it's brisk enough to bother him. He hasn't really gotten the ice out of his skin. He glances upwards before they slip through the doors. “You're sure it wasn't snowing the night I crashed?”

“Stiles, it hasn't been below forty degrees all winter. Are you sure whatever it was that mangled your Jeep didn't have anything to do with it?”

“No. It was snowing beforehand. That thing knocked some trees down, but I seriously doubt that... _beast_ had anything to do with the snow.” Stiles stumbles into a short, stout kid who nearly jumps out of his skin. “Woah, sorry dude.”

“I—it's okay,” he stammers, wide-eyed and innocent. “It was my bad.”

“Nah, I wasn't paying attention. What's your name?”

“Artie.”

“Sup Artie. I'm Stiles. This here's Scott. You new?”

“Yeah. Um. I'm looking for someone, actually. I never got her name, but I think she might go here. She's, uh... really pretty. Dark hair... light skin... Uh, jeez, I don't know. I suck at describing people.”

“Hey, there's lots of pretty girls here. Don't be so focused on one,” Stiles jokes, and the irony is not lost upon him. “What's your first class?”

“Econ.”

“Ha! Good luck, dude. Finstock's nuts, but keep your head down and you'll be fine.” Scott advises, sympathy clear on his features.

Stiles pats the kid on the shoulder; Scott offers him a smile, and they carry on their way.

“Woah, new kids galore,” Stiles muses, pointing out a group of three, hovering in the stairwell. One is a light-haired, lean boy with icy blue eyes and a rather repugnant scowl on his lips. He leers around the hallway, like he's searching for something. Next to him is another boy, with long brown dreadlocks and sun-kissed skin. He's a little lanky and looks like some sort of burn out. He's even got a guitar case slung over his shoulder. He's in far better spirits, grinning down at the third, a young Asian girl with tousled dark locks framing her face. She glances away, eyes Scott and Stiles for a moment, then goes back to her conversation.

They lumber into their first class, English-Lit. Stiles feels a little unsettled as he slips into his desk by the window. There are a lot of memories in this room. Most of them are terrible. Miss Blake is still considered missing, but Stiles has a feeling that she's dead. He wants to call it a hunch, but he just feels like that connection in his life has been severed. Which is good. Scott and Derek might have sympathized with her to some sort of stupid degree, but Stiles, personally, is glad she's dead.

Still, with both her _and_ Harris gone, the substitutes had been dancing in and out of positions before winter break, and Stiles is looking forward to seeing a permanent face again.

“Morning,” Isaac says, flopping into a desk in front of Scott. “Seen the new teacher yet?”

“Not yet.”

“How's your ribs?” He looks to Stiles. Stiles is actually a little pleased that Isaac asked. They've come a long way from hating each other.

“Far from barbecued and delicious.”

“Fair enough.” When he whirls in his desk to see Allison making her way in, he basically lights up the entire room.

Stiles thinks Allison is awesome, but sometimes wonders if she's hidden fairy dust up her sleeves that somehow intensifies feelings of love. When people fall for her, they fall hard. Maybe since she's been with Scott he's just not interested. He doesn't know. He does feel more connected to her now than he used to, although, apparently, not as much as Isaac does. Either way, he's much happier to see Lydia than Allison. Not so much Aiden, who has an arm casually slung around her waist.

He doesn't care what they've all been through. Ethan and Aiden have a long way to go before Stiles even begins to trust them. While Scott's ability to find the good in people is awesome and all, Stiles thinks maybe he overlooks things too often. And even though Ethan was super harmless at Danny's Christmas party (if making out furiously with Danny is considered harmless), Stiles still kept a watchful eye on him. It really harshed his drinking buzz. When they topple through the door, red-faced and chuckling, Stiles is pretty certain they've been at it again.

“Any luck on the beast?” Scott asks Allison, leaning an arm on the desk as she pulls out school supplies.

“No, unfortunately. Dad and I tore those woods apart looking for clues. No signs of whatever attacked Stiles. We _did_ find some remnants of hunters, though.”

“What kind of hunters are we talking about?” Aiden butts in, much to Stiles's dismay.

“It could be regular hunters, though I doubt many would be out traipsing around with all the 'animal attacks' that have happened around here.”

Stiles looks around the room. The three new kids have settled in the back corner of the room. Their eyes keep finding Allison from behind their books. Stiles squeezes his hands into fists, and he's not sure why. The bell rings.

“Wow, I hope you guys are this talkative when I ask questions.”

The class shifts away from their conversations, looking to the front of the room where the new teacher has stepped forth.

Stiles doesn't know where all these hot teachers have been coming from, but he'd be lying if he wasn't a little suspicious. She's a leggy woman with milk chocolate skin and dark brown hair that's pulled back, fringy bangshanging around her eyes. She's dressed to the nines in a black leather pencil skirt, a yellow sweater, and a pair of threatening looking heels. Stiles seriously considers the notion that knives could be hidden in them.

She slings her coat over the back of her chair, picks up a piece of chalk, and writes her name on the board. “The name's Valerie Slone. You can call me anything you want – provided it's a variation of my name. I don't think that's too much to ask, hm?” There's silence. She leans back against her desk, crossing her feet at the ankles. “See, there's that stunningly social bunch I'm talking about.” She smirks in good humor. “So I know it's the first day, and you guys have had some pretty poor luck with teachers, but hey, I'm open to stuff if you guys are. Why don't we all get to know each other?”

She's actually pretty cool, Stiles has to admit. Her lectures are entertaining, and she knows her stuff. When class breaks, she grins at Stiles on his way out the door.

“Thank you for your input today, Stilinski. You guys have a good day.”

Ms. Slone might be an okay replacement. Stiles hopes, at least.

…

By the end of the day, Stiles is exhausted. He's always sleepy on the first day back. Having spent all his time snuggled beneath the covers of his very welcoming bed after the accident, his body craves to go back-- and yet, lacrosse. His whole body seems to groan at the thought.

Stiles might like lacrosse more if he could play, or if Coach Finstock wasn't coaching it. He's sometimes the worst guy on the planet. Stiles curls up on the bench, frowning in the cold, watching everyone play. Danny is slouched on the bench next to him, perusing the field with mild interest.

“Why aren't you playing?” Stiles asks.

“I, uh-- may have said something rude to Coach? He'll come around when he realizes how rusty everyone is.”

“I dunno, dude. _Greenberg_ is playing.”

Greenberg is immediately benched. Danny chuckles, getting to his feet. “I know. I told him to play. Now Coach isn't mad at me. He's mad at Greenberg.”

“Clever.”

Danny starts for the field, then pauses. “You okay, Stilinski?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Danny shrugs. “Just asking.” He chews his lip and steps away. Coach is already yelling for him to _get up and play already._

Maybe Stiles isn't in the best of spirits. It's been kind of a crazy year. He closes his eyes and sees the Nemeton, clinging to the planet. He feels the dirt beneath his nails, smells the chill in the air. Something just doesn't _feel_ right. He wonders if he should go investigate. Then he remembers the fiery red eyes of the beast and strongly reconsiders.

He doesn't want to say he was afraid. He's run into plenty of things with fear on his heels and a scream burning in his lungs. Being afraid is nothing new... butthere was something different about this one. He can't explain it, and he wishes he could, but the night of that Christmas party – something had shifted. Something...

He looks up and snow is drifting down in the sudden quiet. Judging by Scott's expression, he sees it too.

…

“So.”

“So, what?” Allison rolls her eyes as she slides on her boots.

It's their first-day-of-school-lady-date, and Lydia is more determined than usual. Allison doesn't really know why. They've been together for most of break. Then again, Lydia's been a little wrapped up in Aiden, so maybe they haven't been spending _as much_ time together.

“What's going on with you and Isaac?”

“Nothing,” Allison answers quickly, suppressing a sudden shiver. It feels cold in her room. “Nothing.”

“What about that dream you had? Are you telling me you didn't act on it? _Allison._ You and Scott broke up _months_ ago. It doesn't hurt to get out there and enjoy yourself a little.”

“That dream involved Kate rising from the grave and trying to kill him with my help, Lydia. I don't want to act on that at all. Besides, it's not fair to Scott. Isaac's his friend.”

“What, you can't sleep with your ex-boyfriend's friend?”

Allison huffs, finishing the laces on her boot. “It's frowned upon.”

“Screw that. Your happiness is what's important, Allison.”

“...Maybe you're right." Allison smiles a little, rearing up and turning to check herself in the mirror.

She sees Kate. She gasps, jolting back, her stool tipping over. Lydia jumps up.

“What?! What?”

Allison's heart is pounding in her chest, and her blood is running cold in her veins. She feels sick. Her head spins and Lydia kneels, catching her before she falls completely to the floor.

“Allison? Allison. Hey.”

She blinks it all away, the contact warming her and pulling her back. She clutches at Lydia, absorbing it with everything she has.

“I swear I saw Kate. In my mirror.”

“With you?”

“ _Instead of me._ ” Allison's throat closes upat the thought of it. She shakes her head.

“It's okay, Allison. Maybe it was just because we were talking about her," Lydia offers, biting her lip.

“I don't know. I don't know.” She doesn't think that's the case.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” That, she's certain of.

…

“Nope.”

“Stiles.”

“N-O, Scott. I'm not getting back on that thing. I almost died.”

“Yeah, well, I mean. You _almost die_ a lot more than the average human,” Isaac snarks, “But if you're going to walk, I will gladly take the ride home, since I had to walk this morning.”

“Are you really trying to guilt trip the guy with healing ribs?” Stiles deadpans.

“Depends. Is it working?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Scott, I can walk home, okay?”

“What about the snow?” Scott argues.

Isaac makes a face. “What snow? It's like forty-eight degrees outside.”

Stiles grimaces. Awesome. They're both going crazy now. “It's not snowing,” he states vaguely. “I'll walk, Scott.”

“Are you sure?” Dubious would be an understatement when it comes to Scott's expression.

“Yeah, look, I'm fine. Besides, if dad catches me hoofing it, maybe he'll spring for a new car.”

“Don't count on it.” Isaac throws a leg over Scott's bike, then frowns, looking a little guilty. “I mean, only if you want to walk though, Stiles. I'm only kidding with all the guilt tripping and stuff.”

“Thanks, Isaac. I got it.”

“We could follow you,” Scott suggests.

“Scott, bro, I love you. Go home.”

He hesitates one more timebefore slipping his helmet on, and then he and Isaac take off into the sunset. Stiles zips up his coat and starts his trek home. He makes it most of the way when he sees the snow again, heavier than before. It scalds his senses and he takes a couple of steps back, clapping a hand over his mouth as a noxious scent fills his nose. What... what _is that_?

He hears the flatline. The death rattle.

His breath catches as realizes what's happening.

But this time it's so much worse. It overwhelms him completely. Anguish bleeds into his heartand he's frozen, unmoving, still. Then he sees the glow of red eyes. He doesn't know if they're actually there, but he runs. He sprints down the sidewalk, his ribs protesting and making him wheeze. His stomach lurches and the world tilts on it's axis as he trips.

He doesn't make it to the ground.

Stiles doesn't even realize he's yelling incoherently until he sees Derek's face.

Derek's face.

_Derek_.

“Derek,” he states breathily, shock washing over him, the death rattle dimming and the snow letting up.

“What's wrong?” Derek asks, his expression unreadable, eyes tracing over every line on Stiles's face. It makes Stiles feel like he wants to retreat. “Stiles. _Stiles._ ”

His head spins and he pushes Derek back, puking all over the sidewalk. His knees buckle but Derek grabs him and holds strong, helps lower him to the ground. “Not exactly how I thought our reunion would go,” he mutters. He touches Stiles's forehead. “You're freezing.... Stiles. _Breathe._ Take a breath.” He puts a hand on Stiles's healing rib and the pain starts to leak away, but it's not the pain that's making his chest heave or his head spin. Something is _wrong._

He takes a breath anyway.

Derek grows clearer in his vision. The snow is gone. The world goes silent.

“H-hey, Derek. Long time no see.”

Derek lets out a breath. Was Derek holding his breath? He _does_ look a little relieved. “Could say the same for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our new teacher is based on [Aisha Tyler.](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0878768/?ref_=sr_1) And our new students are based off [Toby Hemingway](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1738172/?ref_=nmmi_mi_nm), [Samuel Larsen](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm4511271/), and [Brenda Song](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0814259/). :)


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Three**

Scott slides off into the driveway and kills the engine. Isaac frowns, eyes flickering over to Scott because his heart rate is picking up.

“Scott?”

Scott yanks off his helmet and it topples from his hands, clattering against the concrete.

“Something's wrong,” he groans, his eyes glowing red, fangs baring.

“Woah. Woah,” Isaac gulps, holding up his hands in defense. “Scott, get a hold of yourself.”

_Become a killer._ He hears the voice like a roar in his head and fights to find his friends in the shadows, scrambles for them desperately. Isaac's voice grows more and more distant. He feels sick. He feels cold. He gets images of his claws ripping people apart, of losing control, feels the heady rush of power, the coppery scent of red fills his nostrils. He stumbles backwards as his vision vanishes, knocking his bike over, trembling. He's blinded.

Isaac breaches the surface of shadow, grabbing Scott viciously by the shoulders, screaming for him.

When he comes back, it's snowing. He stares up at the clouds, watching the flakes fluttering down, catching on his eyelashes. He falls slack, Isaac being the only thing holding him on his feet. He reaches out and clutches to him, claws digging into Isaac's skin. He stillsmells blood. He _tastes_ blood.

“Scott?” Isaac asks, and his voice is small, frightened.

He's back. Sort of. Everything still feels a little off kilter.

He sees the wounds he's inflicted on his friend and quickly, ashamedly, retracts his claws. “Isaac, I'm sorry--”

“Forget that. I'll heal. Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

“I-- I don't know. I just... I lost myself.”

“You were growling. You looked... you looked so bloodthirsty.”

Scott steadies himself and gulps down air. Then, fear strikes him. What if... what if...

“What if _I_ was the beast that attacked Stiles, Isaac?! I mean, what happened just now-- I... I could've been, right?”

“Scott...”

The snow is falling heavily. Scott doesn't understand why Isaac can't seem to see it. “I could have killed him. I could have killed my best friend.”

“There's no guarantee that you were in those woods that night, Scott.”

“But that doesn't mean I _wasn't!_ ” Scott shudders, his muscles jumping beneath his skin.

What if being a true alpha means he is too powerful for his own good? What if he forms into something so much worse than what he's come into contact with. Maybe the world is better off without him--

He needs to shut those thoughts down.

“Come on. Let's get you inside. You feel like you're frozen.” Isaac puts a comforting hand on Scott's back and escorts him toward the door. “And let's give Deaton a call, okay? He can probably help with this.”

Scott's bike still lays on its side in the driveway.

…

“I don't... I... Derek... what are you doing here?”

“You're asking me that right now?” Derek gives Stiles a look of disbelief. “Cora came screaming into my room that you were dead. We had to do something.”

Stiles flounders, a little touched that they'd pick up their lives and come back to their own personal Hell for _him._ They've come a long way.

Grief is still fresh in Stiles's throat, but he cannot _be_ any happier for a familiar face. “W-well, _what took you so long?!_ ”

Derek looks a little sheepish. “We ran into a couple of snags on the way back.”

“Derek!” Cora rushes out of a building with a large plastic coffee cup in each hand. “Get your damn coffee--” She pauses. “Stiles?”

She kneels by them with intense, wolfish eyes. She doesn't look like she's been sleeping well. Her eyes are swollen. Stiles glances at Derek. He's scruffier than usual and a little sallow in the face. Apparently neither of them have been getting much sleep. Stiles thinks they should start a club.

...

“We had hunters chasing us. I don't know how they found us, but they came barreling through our place the morning we were packing to go.”

They're sitting in the coffee shop and Stiles has a cup of hot tea steaming in front of him. He wanted coffee but Derek insisted on tea, a green tea with honeyand ginger. It's actually pretty good, and it quells his nausea for the time being.

It's kind of weird, sitting with them, but it's nice too. The distance has done the Hales some good. They look tired, but maybe not quite so beat down. Like whipped puppies or something.

“I'm sorry I didn't call,” Stiles says. “My phone got destroyed. I'm the only one with your number, Cora.”

She gives him a sympathetic smile, her eyes sad. “We try to keep communications down so we're not followed.”

“I know. But I was pretty lame for worrying you anyway.” He sips on his tea.

“No hard feelings. Now, why don't you tell me why the hell we're here,” Cora replies. “What happened?”

“I wish I knew. I started feeling really bad and this... this _thing_ just attacked me. I don't know what it was. It was huge and rabid and...” Stiles shudders at the thought, notices that his hands are still shaking. “I don't know. I just ran.” He takes a shaky breath. “I just ran.”

“Like you were before,” Derek states, scrutinizing Stiles over his coffee cup. “You were sick just now too. Was that beast responsible?”

“No... no. I don't think it was. This has...” Stiles sighs. “This has been going on for a little while.”

“Have you told anybody about this?” If Stiles didn't know any better, he'd be certain that Derek sounds worried.

Stiles chews his lip, moves about aimlessly, stalling. Then, he finally answers. “Not really.”

And, yeah, his friends know about the beast attacking him, and about the chill he'd felt before the tree had fallen in front of his Jeep. They know about the snow, but they don't know about how long this has been going on. Sure, Stiles is a little new to the idea that his disgust with Beacon Hills' current winter might have nothing to do with the actual weather.

“Ugh, you're as bad as him,” Cora huffs, indicating Derek, “Just keep it all to yourself 'til everything goes to hell.”

“I didn't even know anything was wrong!” Stiles argues. “I thought maybe it was just cold. Maybe I just wasn't feeling well. But... no, like, I _know_ something's different.”

The bell above the door jingles and in walks the three new kids from school. Derek and Cora immediately bristle, ducking their heads.

“Time to leave,” Derek says quietly.

“Why?” Stiles asks, confused. “What?”

“Trust me.” Derek tugs Stiles out of his chair by the cowl of his shirt and begins pushing him toward the door.

Stiles feels the strangers staring and tries to focus on the heat of Derek's hand against his neck.

…

Dr. Deaton looks puzzled as Isaac explains Scott's behavior. Scott just sits silently on the examination table, drumming his fingers on the side of it, antsy and stressed.

“You've been seeing snow?”

“Yeah. Stiles has been seeing it too,” Scott responds, rubbing at his eyes. “I don't know. I just... I don't feel right.”

“Can we give Stiles a call? Allison?”

“Stiles doesn't have a phone... but I can call Allison,” Isaac suggests. Scott's eyes dart to Isaac's face, a little darker when Allison is mentioned. There's something dangerous in the way Scott sits, and it makes Dr. Deaton shift uncomfortably.

Yeah. Something is definitely wrong. It's been a long time since Deaton has seen Scott so uncertain. Isaac is not lost to the look Scott gives him, grimacing a little guiltily before stepping out of the room to press his phone to his ear.

Scott groans, running his hands down his face. “I don't know why I'm acting this way. I'm not mad at Isaac. I'm not. I don't know why I'm feeling this way.”

“Scott, before you and Stiles and Allison went under to find the Nemeton, I told you that you would have a darkness in your heart forever.”

“Yeah, but it just seems to be getting worse. I feel like I might lose my handle on it. I'm scared that I've become some sort of giant beast and that I almost killed my best friend.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions,” Deaton says calmly, reaching out to put a hand on Scott's shoulder. He immediately relaxes. After all, Deaton is Scott's tether.

…

Derek shoves Stiles into the passenger seat of his car, Cora climbing into the back seat. They are silent and alert, as Derek **coasts** into the street, keeping an eye on his rearview mirror.

“They're not following us,” Cora says.

“It's because he's here,” Derek replies. “They don't know what he knows.”

“What do I know? What do they know that I don't know?”

“Those are the hunters that have been chasing us,” Cora snips, craning her neck to keep an eye on the coffee shop that is dwindling away from view.

“What?!” Stiles is exasperated. “Those teenagers?”

“Yeah. They caught us on the outskirts of town and we had to detour south for a couple of days to lay low. I don't know what brought them here, but they mean business.”

“Fantastic,” Stiles grouses, settling down lower in his seat. “This is just what we need. Fucking hunters.”

Derek glances at him then back at the road. 

“Oh sh--” He stomps on the brakes and Stiles lurches forward against his seatbelt. Derek doesn't even get the words out as the car swerves around this giant... _thing._

“What the hell was that?!” Cora yelps.

The creature roars, bellowing some sort of feral battlecry. Derek slams his foot on the gas and it gives chase. Stiles feels the panic rise in his throat, fingers itching to grab on to _something, for God's sake._ His vision begins to blot as his chest constricts, and his entire body shakes.

He doesn't need this right now. He doesn't need to be afraid, but he is. He's a fucking mess.

“Stiles. _STILES_ ,” Derek yells, and his voice is gruff. “Breathe!”

Stiles slams his hands over his ears because he can hear that death rattle again. There's a whisper in his ear. _You could die. You could join her._ There's no comfort in those words. He hears himself screaming, but he can't stop. When he opens his eyes, he sees the Nemeton through the trees, can hear it hiss as it decomposes.

It's _dying_.

The closer they get to it, the worse Stiles feels.

“Derek!” Cora screeches as they round a corner going way, _way_ too fast. The creature's steps are so heavy and powerful that the entire car wobbles on the unsteady road.

Then the creature cries out—is knocked back by some sort of attack—and retreats back into the woods. The car slows to a stop. Derek jumps out, claws bared, eyes glowing blue. The woods are deathly silent, a stark contrast to the earth rattling noises ringing out only moments ago.

“Stiles?” Cora asks after a breath.

Stiles stares into the woods, past the long lines of trees and piles of leaves. He hears nothing. All his senses die into nothing, and it's just him and that stump of a tree, growing black, shriveling, _withering away_. Before he knows it, he's bailing out of the car and running into the tree line.

“Stiles!” Derek yells after him.

Stiles freezes when he reaches the large, flat stump, the roots twisting away from the base. The bark is flaking off of it, and there's a large, gutted, hole in the center of it. Stiles takes a shudderingbreath, reaching for it with numb fingers.

Then everything vanishes.

…

Cora ducks and dodges trees, rushing after her brother. She can hear his heart pounding, the quick breaths he takes. Stiles's heartbeat is absent. She can't get there fast enough.

When she catches sight of her brother, he's kneeling over Stiles's body, hands on his chest, pumping. 

One, two, three.

“What _happened_?” She asks, face contorting, covering her mouth with her hands.

“I— I don't know,” Derek actually looks scared, “He reached out for the tree and he just... he just _died right in front of me._ Come on... come _on_...” He keeps pushing down on Stiles's chest, but the boy is lifeless.

Cora whips her head about, then looks past him to the grisly stump. It takes her a second to recognize it.

“Derek, pick him up. Get him out of here.” She speaks firmly.

“What?”

“It's this, Derek. It's the Nemeton!”

Derek twists to look over his shoulder at it, but he doesn't question her. He scoops Stiles into his arms and they head for the road. When the remnants of the tree are out of sight, Stiles suddenly shoots up, gasping for breath, like he's breaking through water, eyes frantic and searching. Derek nearly drops him because it's so fast. Instead, he lights into Stiles.

“Are you out of your _mind?!_ Why the fuck would you go running off into the woods when there's a monster chasing us?!”

Stiles flounders, looking at Derek like he didn't expect him to be there, like he's completely lost— a deer in the headlights.

“Wh-what?”

“Get in the fucking car!” Derek roars, pushing Stiles into the seat and slamming the door.

Stiles just looks confused. He makes eyes at Cora, silently asking for clarification. 

She doesn't know what to say.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Four**

Allison doesn't look good when she steps into the animal clinic. Lydia's clinging to her arm worriedly, green eyes focused on her friend's face. The way Allison holds her self is different. Typically, it's with confidence, but her shoulders are too stiff, her posture too brutish. Isaac's smile drifts off of his face when she enters, recognizing the look in her eyes. It's a look remarkably more familiar to the steely cold Allison that had shoved Chinese ring daggers into his back. He sometimes forgets that part of her ever existed.

“So I'm assuming that you're going to agree with Scott,” Isaac murmurs a little nervously, chewing the inside of his cheek. “That this whole... darkness thing isn't going well for you.”

Her eyelashes flutter like she wants to cry, but she doesn't. Lydia releases her and Allison steps forward to wrap her arms around Isaac's middle. The color returns to her face as he embraces her, pulling her back to look over her features.

“Lydia's been keeping me together,” she says, and her voice sounds raw. “We went to dinner and it just kept getting worse. I threatened the waiter.”

Isaac gives a breath of a laugh, face still clouded with empathy, because Isaac understands how it is to be consumed by something that makes you a different person; that makes you angry and vicious when you don't want to be, that makes you lose control. “Hope you got the meal comped.”

She laughs a little too, squeezing him before finally letting go. Isaac glances toward the back of the office, where Scott is giving him a dark look that makes his hair stand on end. His alpha is angry. He offers a hug to Lydia to even the odds but she doesn't take his bait, pressing her lips together in sympathy, but patting him gently on the chest.

“Where's Stiles?” she asks vaguely, when she turns.

“He's not here.”

“Shouldn't he be?”

“He doesn't have a phone,” Allison reminds, looking exhausted. “Should we go get him?”

Then the door opens and in he walks. Scott jumps down off the exam table to get a better look, because Stiles is _definitely_ in bad shape. His skin is as white as a sheet and he's weak on his feet. The surprise in the room comes more from the company he keeps, however. Derek and Cora are all but completely holding Stiles up.

“Sit,” Derek says, pushing Stiles down onto a bench by the door. Stiles head lolls back against the wall.

“Stiles?” Lydia pushes through and cups his face in her hands. “Hey. You in there?”

Stiles blinks a few times, drawing from his tether, getting a little more life in him. “Sort of,” he croaks.

“Deaton,” Derek says, not even offering a greeting to the pack, too focused on the topic at hand. “Deaton, the Nemeton is dying.”

“It's a stump,” Isaac responds incredulously. “Isn't it already dead?”

Derek huffs, annoyed and impatient. “It still has its roots in the ground.It has power from the... virgin sacrifice.Now, something is poisoning it and taking away whatever power it still has. We saw it. It's decomposing as we speak. There's a giant hole in the center of it and it's eating its way through the core.”

Deaton looks legitimately disturbed, and that's a bad sign if anyone's ever seen one.

“Stiles, were you with them?” he asks, urgency in his voice.

Stiles nods a little shakily. “Y-yeah. I was there.”

“He fell out as soon as we got there,” Cora says, frowning. “Derek was trying to resuscitate him before we finally got him away from it.”

The color drains from Scott's face. “Stiles, you--”

Stiles touches his chest gingerly, like his heart will stop again with the simple gesture. The fact that he was literally dead for at least a minute settles on him like a heavy weight.

“I'm fine,” he tries, feeling guilty. Scott looks absolutely devastated, and Stiles swallows. “I mean... right now, I am.”

“The Nemeton is seeking the three of you out for protection. Unfortunately, you are connected through that inner darkness, so the only strength the Nemeton can give is exactly that.”

“But why is it so up and down?” Isaac questions. “Sometimes they're fine. Others they're completely losing their minds.”

“Maybe that's when the tree is being attacked,” Lydia explains. “That's when it would seek them out the most, right?”

“We can't really find out because it literally fucking kills us when we approach,” Stiles groans.

“It leeched on your life energy,” Deaton elaborates. “So you've probably given it more time. However, as it continues to weaken, it will reach for more, and so the rest of you will as well.” He frowns, rubbing his hands together. “We need to figure out who or what is sabotaging it.”

“How do we stop it? How do we return the power to the Nemeton?” Lydia whirls on Deaton in a flurry of strawberry blonde hair.

“The same way as before,” Deaton says. “Virgin sacrifice.”

…

“What are you doing?” Allison asks as Lydia stacks books on the library table.

“Trying to figure out what we're up against. I'm thinking that monster is probably responsible for what's happening to the Nemeton. I mean, it shows up about the same time as you guys start having symptoms, right? Correlations.”

“That's a lot of books,” Allison starts. Then Aiden comes lumbering around the shelf with another large stack, dropping them on the table with a grimace. “...Okay then.”

“We should also check the Bestiary. If we can find a name for this thing, we can research it. Meanwhile, some of these books could help us create some sort of barrier around it. Since we can't really keep guard on it with some sort of mongrel terrorizing the woods.”

“Looks like Beacon Hills will be seeing some more 'mountain lion attacks',” Aiden snarks, flipping through a few pages with mild interest. “Joy.”

“Dial back the excitement, honey,” Lydia deadpans sarcastically.

“I'm not a researcher,” Aiden chuckles, suave. “That's why I have a smart girlfriend.”

“Well, the dumb ones do tend to be better in bed.”

Aiden pouts. Allison wishes she had enough happiness in her to laugh, but she doesn't. She's had nightmares about becoming Kate for the past two nights, and the cold stare of her mother's ghost seems to be following her around, haunting her. Not to mention she's getting weird vibes from new students in the hallway.

It's already taking its toll on her academically. She's struggling to keep her eyes open in class and even when she's able to stay awake, her focus is off. Sometimes she catches herself staring holes into the back of Scott's head or fighting the urge to reach over and grab Isaac's hand to steady herself. Because that's the exact problem. She feels unsteady, unstable, un _able_ , and that's just not something she wants to deal with. She's been fighting and clawing for the ability to show that she can take care of herself. She doesn't want to start backing off of that notion.

Scott's dealing with it better than she is. She thinks maybe it has something to do with him being a werewolf. The Nemeton is drawing on their strength. Scott just has more to give, being an alpha. Allison's being drained dry. And Stiles-- she's actually really concerned about Stiles.

All that being said, she's just completely disinterested in Lydia's plans. She wants to do something, but she doesn't feel like reading all about it is going to help her at this point. Her mother would be ashamed of that kind of attitude.

_You never go into a situation unprepared, Allison. Only barbarians fight without knowledge on their side. What the hell do you think you're even doing?_

“Allison?” Aiden waves a hand in front of her eyes and she blinks a couple of times, coming back around. “You in there?”

She forces a smile, gathering her stuff. “Sorry. I just... I have to take care of something.” She leaves them in the library.

When she steps out the double doors, she runs into a little freshman, immediately recognizing him.

“It's you!” Artie exclaims, eyes lighting up.

“You're the boy that ran out of the woods,” Allison states. “Artie, right?”

“Yeah, uh. Yeah. That's me.” He flushes a little around the ears. “I was hoping you went to school here. You saved me.”

“I really didn't do anything,” Allison tries, humbled. “Are you okay now?”

“I think so,” he says. He shrinks a little in posture. “I mean. I'm trying to be. Are you okay?”

Allison fights the sudden urge to cry. “Honestly? I've been better. But I'll manage.” She takes him in a moment, the shuffle of his feet. “Why were you out in those woods anyway? I don't know how new you are to Beacon Hills, but the forest is kind of dangerous.”

“Ha, yeah. I kind of figured that one out. I, uh....” He sighs. “I need to talk to you about it.”

“Why me?”

When he looks at her, his demeanor has shifted to something remarkably more serious. “Because they're going to be looking for you.”

…

Stiles settles outside, sitting under a tree with his hood over his head. He's packed a lunch but he doesn't want to eat it. He's considering catching a quick cat nap instead, nestling up under the spindly branches, grass crunching underneath him. But that would probably be a bad idea. He's had a hell of a time waking up the past few days. He thinks Allison might be having the same problem. She's been dozing off in class and walking around like there's lead in her shoes. Scott's not in top form, but all together, he's dealing as well as he can.

What worries Stiles about Scott is how much shorter Scott's temper has gotten. He can see the tension in Scott's shoulders when Finstock yells at him at practice. He can tell that internally it's even stronger, because Isaac always ends up massively unnerved. Stiles thinks he'd be okay with having a short fuse instead of this massive exhaustion. He hates it.

He wants to go back. He wants to investigate; being unable to is intensely frustrating.

“Stilinski, right?”

Stiles looks up, dead into the face of the new blond fellow, flanked by his two friends. He's got a friendly demeanor, but Stiles doesn't miss the threat in his eyes.

“Yeah, what of it?” he asks, not really patient enough to deal with any shit.

“Mind if we join you?” The girl speaks up.

“Yeah, I do, actually,” Stiles replies bitterly. “I kind of want to be by myself, thanks.”

They sit anyway, expressions shifting to show that he actually doesn't have a choice in the matter.

“Okay then.” Stiles swallows, eyes languidly taking in the area, looking for comrades or an escape route in case anything goes down. “So you guys know my name, but I didn't catch yours.”

“Jason,” the blond one says.

“Eve,” the girl says.

“Kyle,” the dreadlocked one says.

“Cool,” Stiles deadpans. “So, what brings you here? Strong need to invade my personal space? Desperation to annoy someone with your presence? Stop me if I get it.” Stiles reaches for his backpack. He's got to have something he can use as a quick weapon in there.

Jason reaches out and grabs Stiles's wrists with a ferocity. Stiles winces, feeling the bruises form in the shapes of his fingertips.

“What are you looking for?”

“Nothing,” Stiles replies, feigning nonchalance. He's not giving them anything.

“We hear you're pretty popular around here,” Eve says, crawling closer, smirking.

“Hah, well, you heard wrong on that one,” Stiles argues, eyes still focused on Jason's death-grip on his wrist.

“How do you know Derek Hale?” Kyle asks, eyes growing dark.

“Oh, hey, y'know. He uh. He--- er...” Stiles struggles for a lie. “He knows my dad.”

Wow, lame.

“Oh? Is that true?” Jason's grip tightens and Stiles swallows a groan. Then he realizes that he's feeling for a pulse.

Well, it isn't a lie. Derek _does_ know his dad. “Yep.” He fights to keep his heart rate even.

“What do you know about him?” Eve asks, but it sounds more like a command.

Stiles flinches. Jason is just shy of breaking his wrist at this point. “You wanna let me go, asshole?”

Jason twists Stiles arm behind his back and shoves him to the ground. “Watch how you talk to me.”

“Can't really watch it when my face is full of dirt,” Stiles grouses, not letting up. Hell, the guy might be furious. He might kick his ass, but at least he won't continue asking questions about Derek.

“Kyle.” Jason holds out his free hand, digging a knee into Stiles's spine.

Stiles sees the glint of a switch blade. Jason slides it over Stiles's wrist, drawing a thin line of blood. It stings down to Stiles's fingers, which are going numb. After a moment, Jason releases him.

“He's not one.”

Stiles grips his injured wrist, scrambling to his feet, glaring them down. He knows their fucking game now.

“You're gonna fucking assault me?” Stiles hisses.

“I'd recommend you keep your head down and go on your way,” Eve suggests, eyes glimmering in malice.

“Yeah? Well, why don't you tell me what I'm _not_.”

“That's not any concern of yours--” Jason starts.

“What, a _werewolf?!_ ” Stiles snaps. “Is that what you were checking for?”

A level of panic falls on their faces. The question is completely unexpected. Then their expressions shift. Smug.

“So he _does_ know.”

“I'm just full of knowledge nowadays,” Stiles spits, clenching his fists. “Too bad this interview's over.”

He grabs his bag and turns to go. When Kyle's large hand slides over his shoulder, Stiles doesn't even think twice. He whirls and punches the guy dead in the nose. He stumbles back, gripping the offended spot.

“You son of a--”

Jason and Kyle jump for him and Stiles runs. Fight or flight. He knows when he's outnumbered. When he looks back, he can see past the angry, testosterone fueled fellows to Eve, who seems to be taking him in, reading him and his movements. Stiles knows deep down that this girl is a threat to be reckoned with.

Still, there are other problems at hand. He runs for the doors of the school but they tackle him before he reaches his destination. He scrambles underneath them, trying to block his face from the impending blows.

“Hey! Hey! Get off 'im!” Suddenly they're being wrenched off, two sets of hands yanking at the offenders' shoulders.

One of his rescuers is Ms. Sloan, holding Kyle back with surprise on her features. Finstock is the other, far more rough with Jason than probably necessary. He's still got a cigarette dangling off his lip.

“You got a lot of nerve trying to lay your hands on another student. If you two were tough guys, you wouldn't have to double team a fist fight. Now get back to class before I show you how it's done.” He shoves Jason toward the door. Ms. Sloan speaks in a low voice to Kyle, and Stiles can't hear it, but it's apparently enough, because he wipes his nose with the back of his hand and heads inside with slumped shoulders.

Finstock offers Stiles a hand up after stomping his cigarette. “Guy can't even get a cigarette break anymore. Jeez.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Stiles says, a little lost at the idea that Finstock has any good in him. Because most of the time he makes Stiles want to rip his hair out. “I, uh... I owe you one.”

“Forget it, Stilinski. Stupid bullies. I should've whooped their asses myself. But that's _means for termination_ apparently.” He glances at Stiles's wrist. “They do that to you?”

“Uh, yeah, but I mean. I punched the guy. So.”

“You have pretty piss poor luck, Stilinski. I wouldn't recommend making anymore enemies.”

“Heh, uh. Noted.” Finstock's right for once. “I'll go get this bandaged up at the nurse's office. Thanks again.” He looks at Ms. Sloan. “And thank you too.”

She smiles. “You're welcome.”


	6. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Five**

“What do you mean 'they're looking for me'? Who's _they?_ ”

Artie and Allison are ducked under the stairwell by the locker rooms. Class has started and all the students are with the teachers, but Allison figures she can be a little late for class. This is important.

“Okay, I don't know everything, but.... There are _hunters_ coming, Allison. They want to find you and get your help.”

Allison's heart jumps in her throat. The last time a group of hunters had come to town, her mother had died and she, herself, had been manipulated into a killing machine by her psychotic grandpa. “How do you know about that?” Allison breathes.

“I... I used to be one of them. But I quit, Allison, I _swear._ I... you... you were a godsend that night. With all those lights and all those cops. I was so scared.... But you calmed me down. You kept me safe from them. I don't know what these guys are up to, but they'd never _do_ that for me. I want to help you. I know that they're looking for you. As soon as I found out you were an Argent, I had to find you again.”

“I... I don't understand. Why do they want my help?”

“They're trying to... to kill something. I don't know what.”

_The Nemeton_ , is Allison's first thought. But why would they want to kill it? It's power lures supernatural beings to one specific place. Any hunter would value the opportunity to use the Nemeton to their advantage, to bait creatures into converging at one point for an easy kill. With Allison's new code set firmly in place, she clenches her jaw at the thought of unsuspecting, innocent people falling and getting killed for seeking strength and protection.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks, because she honestly doesn't know.

“They're going to come to you. I don't know when and I don't know how, but they are going to seek you out. They're going to make it sound like it's something you need to do. Don't believe them. Refuse them.”

“And what will they do to me if I refuse?”

Artie casts his eyes away, nervous. “I don't know.”

By the time Allison gets to class, it's half over. The teacher is not pleased. She gets detention.

…

Okay, _maybe_ Stiles is experiencing some fluctuations in his temper, too. He tells Scott and Isaac about what went down and he can feel the anger heating his face, cheeks splotchy and red. Those mother _fuckers_ \--

“They know about Derek. Do they know about us?” Isaac asks, eyes darting between Scott and Stiles, a little alarmed at the anger in their features. “I mean, if they're tracking Derek, why are they atschool?”

“I don't think they were initially after Derek. Derek says they got on his tail when he was on the outskirts of town. He and Cora had to detour and lay low for a few days. Otherwise, they would've been here the day after my car accident.”

Scott looks puzzled. “Derek drove over state lines because you were in a car accident? I thought someone clued him in on what's going on around here?”

“Well, I mean, he didn't know anything for sure,” Stiles says, and he doesn't know why he feels so embarrassed. “But I was talking to Cora on the phone when that thing attacked me. So. Yeah.”

“Regardless,” Isaac jumps in, not really caring for Derek's motives at this point, “This is a bad thing. They're snooping around the school for a reason. We need to figure out if _we're_ why.”

“They didn't ask me about you or Scott,” Stiles says. “Just Derek. They saw me with him and Cora at the coffee shop. They cut my wrist to see if it would heal.”

“They thought _you_ were a werewolf?” Isaac looks almost amused at that. Stiles bristles.

“I could be a werewolf if I wanted to, Isaac. My best friend here's an alpha if you don't recall,” Stiles snips immaturely, though he feels entirely justified. “Anyway, we need to figure out why they're here. What about that thing that attacked me in the woods? I mean, that seems like a pretty big target for a hunter, right? Skin that fucking thing alive and make a rug out of it or something?”

“I don't think that's what supernatural hunters do,” Scott murmurs.

“I _hope_ that's not what they do,” Isaac adds, shifting uncomfortably.

Stiles actually feels a little bad for Isaac. He's getting this dark-Nemeton-shit from every corner.

“Look, I'm thinking I'll cut practice and hit up the loft. Ask Derek what he knows about these guys.”

“I dunno,” Scott says, frowning. “They could follow you. They know you're connected to him somehow. You could end up leading them right to him.”

Stiles is a little offended. Scott's just suggesting that Stiles isn't even careful enough to go _talk to someone._ Not that he's been super careful lately. He did almost die. Twice.

Doesn't mean he's not gonna pout about it a little bit.

…

“If Stiles and the others were experiencing symptoms that strong, then the culprit had to have been around here not long before we reached it,” Derek says, trudging through the woods with carefully. The leaves are deep and harder to travel through, shielding their sight from holes in the ground or stumps for them to trip over.

“So you're saying we just missed whoever it was that was doing this,” Cora simplifies, glancing down at the Nemeton with wary eyes. “Strange that there was no scent left behind.”

“That's what I was thinking.” Derek pushes some of the leaves away from the stump. “Whoever is up to this has to have an idea of what we're capable of, right?”

“Maybe.” Cora touches the trunk quietly. “But why do it? I mean... what's the motive?”

“I don't know.” Derek yanks open the dilapidated door to the root cellar and hops down below ground. Cora peeks down at the flecks of dust playing in the sunlight as he digs around.

“What are you looking for?”

“Anything at this point. I'm at a loss.”

“Why does it matter to you?” Cora feels the need to ask. “I mean, Stiles is okay for the most part. We could leave Beacon Hills and let Scott handle this if we really wanted to. That was your plan all along, wasn't it? You said we would never come back here.”

“Coming back here was your idea,” Derek argues, slipping into the shadows, unseen.

“Yeah, but I didn't have to twist your arm very hard. I basically said we have to go back and you said okay. Admit it, Derek, you wanted to come back.”

“Not to any of this.” Derek sounds bitter and disappointed. She can hear the clatter of something from down below.

Cora hugs her knees. “...Anything?”

“No.” Derek uses his claws to climb his way out of the hole, sitting on the side of it, legs dangling over the pit. “The roots are shriveling.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, stressed. “I don't... I don't know what else to do. Deaton said there had to be a virgin sacrifice to restore the power to this thing. If there's no sacrifice, the Nemeton's going to die. Scott might manage to survive, but Allison and Stiles don't stand a chance.”

“Stiles looks _bad_ , Derek,” Cora murmurs.

“I know.” He sighs. “Maybe...”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe we should ask Peter.”

“Derek, no.” Cora is adamant. “We don't need to involve him in this.”

“I don't know what else to do. Maybe he knows something we don't. Maybe he can help us.”

“Yeah, because he'd definitely want to help us. He's not gonna do it for free. He's gonna want something in return. The only reason he's ever helped us is because his ass was on the line too.”

“Yeah, well, with hunters stomping in to town, it probably is. He's an omega. He has no pack. He's in dangerous territory and he's lacking serious strength to fight them off.”

“And if he refuses?”

“He won't be able to. Peter knows as well as anyone else that if he's going to survive as a werewolf, he's got to have a pack. Scott's pack is the only one around. He has to make the effort. He has to let Scott lead him.”

…

“Hello beautiful.”

Allison grimaces on her way out of detention. The blond fellow, that she knows is a hunter, is waiting for her against her locker.

“I need to get in there,” she says, unfazed.

“You know, I've heard a lot about you and your family. No one informed me of how pretty you are.” He grins at her, and he's trying to be smooth, but she doesn't take the bait, pushing past him to put her books away. “Pretty _and_ dangerous.”

“I always thought those two went hand in hand,” she responds with ease.

“Oh, come on, baby, don't be so cold.” He reaches for her but she grabs his wrist, twisting it behind his back and slamming him into the locker.

“I'm not your baby. I don't need you to warm me up. Now I would recommend that you get away from me as fast as possible before I shove this hand of yours into a much more uncomfortable place. It would require some breaking that I'm totally capable of.”

He twists out of her grip, knocking her to the floor, and he's on top of her, leering over her, his dog tags and bleached bangs hanging in her face. He leans in, whispering to her, dangerous.

“You don't even know what you're up against.”

_Don't dare let him get away with that._ Allison hears her mother's stern voice, loud and ever-present in the back of her head. _If you have to rip his heart out of his chest and hold it beating in your hand, you do so. He is disrespecting you!_

Allison feels rage boiling in her gut, her fingers tingling-- Then she blacks out.

Her breathing doesn't feel like hers, but it's the only thing she hears. It sounds like Kate's, deep and furious.

When she comes to, she's got the kid shoved back against the lockers again, and she's twisted his dog tags tight against his throat. He's struggling for air and looking at her with fear in his eyes.

_No, stop_. Allison knows she needs to stop. She needs to stop. She's _killing him._ She twists tighter, leaning in close, giving him a malicious little smile.

“I don't take very kindly to threats,” she murmurs, seduction heady on her lips.

The guy wheezes, scrambling at her arms to pull her off of him. His lips are turning blue, and the chain is leaving welts on his neck.

“Allison! Allison, stop!”

Isaac hands fall on Allison's shoulders, and he yanks her backwards fiercely. She stumbles, gasping for breath, feeling like she's drowning. Her vision is sharper as she takes in Isaac's features, the clouds fading away, and she's shaking so hard that it'sdifficult to stand.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” yelps the hunter, breathless, holding his neck and crumpling against the locker. “You could have fucking killed me!”

Allison swallows bile in her throat, forces herself to stand as strongly as she can.

“You're going to regret this,” he says. “You're definitely going to regret this.” The guy takes off.

Allison buckles. Isaac is just quick enough to catch her before she hits the floor. Her entire body is quaking and she hears screaming.

It won't stop. She's horrified that it never will.

“It's okay,” Isaac breathes, enveloping her. “Allison, it's okay.”

She can feel his tether to her weakening, fraying. She tightens her hold around him. “I can't do this. I can't do this.”

Admitting it is a blow worse than any other. She can feel her mother's judgmental eyes on her. She's not doing enough. She's not strong enough. She's too fucking young, too easily distracted. She doesn't deserve to carry the name Argent on her shoulders. She is incapable. She is incapable. _She is incapable_.

“Allison. Stay with me,” Isaac says, panicking. “ _Allison!_ ”

It's so cold.

“Allison!”

She reaches for him, pressing her hands to either side of his face, desperate to look into his eyes for some sort of salvation.

When he kisses her, it feels exactly like that.

…

Stiles drags himself through his front door. He's never felt more tired in his life, and he didn't even participate in lacrosse practice. He may have a little more respect for Finstock, but his patience for him hasn't grown much. He just doesn't like being screamed at, especially when his entire body feels like it's giving up. He rubs at the pink line on his wrist as he climbs the stairs. He can hear his dad clinking around the kitchen, making dinner, but doesn't bother saying hello.

He thinks about calling Lydia. The darkness seems to be hovering just beyond his vision, and he really doesn't want it to get any closer.

He feels guilty about making Scott worry. Scott has enough to worry about. It sucks. Stiles doesn't feel like he can do _anything._ He catches his face in the mirror on his dresser, shaking his head.

He's _withering._

How appropriate.

…

It's late. The moon hangs in the sky, casting an ominous glow on the loft. Derek never wanted to come back here. Memories play in the nooks and crannies, forever haunting him and his home. He crosses his arms, trying to shut it out. Trying to.

Scott sits on the table, fingers laced together as he kicks his legs back and forth. His features are sharper than Derek is used to seeing, but he's not sure if it's the moonlight or if Scott is mid-transformation. He's nervous to say the least. Derek can hear it in the _thump-thump-thump_ of Scott's heart.

“You okay?” Cora asks from the window, silhouetted against it.

Scott shrugs a shoulder, nearly unresponsive, eyes glowing red in the darkness.

“He's here.”

Derek slides off his bed and onto his feet, watching as the heavy metal door slides open.

Peter stands in the doorway, hair slicked and arms crossed over his chest. There's a smugness on his features that makes Derek's skin crawl. Maybe this is a mistake.

“You're not very good at saying goodbye, Derek,” Peter says, amused. “Then again, I have a feeling that you're not much better at hello.”

“Piss off.” Derek can't help himself.

“See? I could have put money on that. May I remind you that you called me here? Dial down the attitude, nephew.”

“We need to know what you know about the Nemeton,” Cora interrupts, getting straight to the point. “After that you can go crawl back into whatever hole you came from.”

“She's taking after you,” Peter muses. “And Scott is here, because--”

“I'm here to warn you.”

Peter raises his eyebrows.

“There are new hunters in town. And they _will_ take you down. You don't have a pack.”

Tension descends on the room as Scott kicks off the table, approaching Peter slowly, methodically, like he's stalking prey.

“I'm going to make you an offer. You help us, and we will protect you.”

“And who's to say you'll be able to do that, Scott?” Peter snips, annoyed at the idea that he needs to be protected. “You're not looking so hot. Power of an alpha too much for you?”

Derek growls, low in his throat, protective and enraged.

“We're offering to help you and you're going to insult us?” Cora barks. “You're something else.”

“I didn't think this was news.”

Derek sneers. He doesn't have the patience for his uncle's attitude.

“Take it or leave it, Peter,” Scott says, and it's very uncharacteristic of him. Derek swallows as he watches Scott's face morph into sinister contemplation. “If they chop you in half, I'll at least take solace in knowing that I tried to help you. And then I'll forget you and you can rot in the ground forever.”

“Scott--” Derek starts, but Scott's claws are bared, ready for a fight.

“Ooh, someone's a bit on edge.” Peter looks a little thrilled at the notion of a fight, and Derek can hear his heart rate picking up. “Careful with that anger.” He chuckles. “And I mean, could you really ever forget me? I _made you_ , Scott. Certainly you don't think you'd be _better off_ do you?”

Derek bares his fangs, stepping between them.

“Are you going to take the offer and tell us what you know? Yes or no.”

Peter smirks like he's won, like he isn't staring down certain death. “Okay.”


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Six**

Lydia's phone vibrates on her desk, across the room. Aiden's hands are wandering over her skin, pulling her shirt over her head.

“I need to answer that,” she breathes into his mouth, and he kisses her hard.

“It can wait,” he argues.

“It could be important,” she gasps as he nibbles at her earlobe, giving her goosebumps. She groans, pushing at his shoulders. “ _Aiden_ \--”

“ _Lydia_ ,” Aiden huffs, leaning back on his haunches. “We have had our noses in books _all day long_ and the second we start to do something fun, you gotta take a phone call?”

She rolls her eyes, patting him affectionately on the cheek – and maybe a little harder than necessary. “Get _off_ me, sweetheart.”

He sighs heavily, rolling off her. She hops off her bed and grabs her phone. She misses the call, heaving a put upon sigh. It doesn't matter, really, she doesn't recognize the number.

…

Stiles doesn't leave a voicemail. He drops his new phone onto his bed, heart sinking in his chest.

_She doesn't want to talk to you,_ he thinks. _She has all these amazing people in her life. You're just one more annoyance she doesn't need._ He runs his hands down his face and tries to shut out the thought. No. No. That's not true. It's not true.

It's not--

…

“I'm not really sure why you're so certain this is a bad thing,” Peter says languidly, flopping onto Derek's bed without permission, kicking back like he owns the place. “The Nemeton brings all kinds of things to Beacon Hills. Wouldn't its death be sort of a nip in the bud to a nuisance?”

“Not if we die with it!” Scott argues, looking a little strung out. He's managed to regain grip on his emotions, but Derek and Cora both can see that it's wearing on him fast. “This thing has almost killed Stiles.”

“Man, that thing is all about the human sacrifice, isn't it?” Peter grins. No one else does. It's all Derek can do to not rip out his fucking throat.

“What's killing it?”

“I don't know. I'm assuming someone has to be involved. Perhaps these hunters you've been so adamant to warn me about? Maybe they know about you Scott. Maybe they're trying to weaken you to take down your pack.” He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Or maybe they're using that little anger problem you've developed to separate you and your pack. Though I'm sure Derek can understand that one much better than I do.”

Cora reaches out and grabs Derek's hand, even though he doesn't make a move. Precautionary methods.

“What exactly is stopping you from guarding the Nemeton?”

“There's a giant beast in the woods surrounding it,” Cora replies coldly. “It's too big and too strong for us to take down on our own. The three connected to it get the life sucked out of them if they get too close. Trust me, I've seen it. A few betas are not going to be able to take this thing down.”

“Do you even know what it is?”

“Not exactly, no.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “See, this is why you need me. What does this thing look like? Obviously it's big and rabid.”

“Yeah, it reminded me a little of you when you were an alpha,” Derek snips, giving Peter a look. “Big, hulking, overpowered and incredibly stupid.”

Peter just smirks at Derek's attitude, clucking his tongue like a scolding parent. “Now who's insulting who? You're sure it wasn't an alpha wolf, then?”

“It didn't smell like one. And it was way more rabid. Like it was completely out of control.”

“What I'm assuming you're dealing with then is a berserker. Think of a werewolf, but replace the wolf with a bear.”

Eyebrows raise all over the room.

“Now, these guys aren't like your werewolves and what-have-you,” Peter explains. “These guys are fueled by rage. It's all that they have. That being said, with the Nemeton still in commission for the time being, the creature is only gaining power by its existence. When the berserker is in its beast-like state, it will have no regard for anything around it. Consider some of those stories – when people claim to see red and then wake up nearly killing someone? That's what this guy deals with.”

“So how do we stop it?” Scott asks, leaning on the table, exhausted.

“That's not really my area of expertise. You're going to have to weaken it somehow before you try to take it down. Or you can attack it in it's human state. I warn you though. If you're going to take down a berserker in human state, you better kill him with one blow. Because the anger that ensues is not something even a professional would want to deal with.” He crosses his arms. “And again, the Nemeton is only helping him gain power. Maybe the hunters are trying to kill it to slow him down. Or her. I guess the berserker could be a her as well.”

“Can we stop it without killing it?” Scott swallows thickly.

“Well, Scott,” Peter responds, smug and dangerous, “That's not really thinking like an alpha, is it?”

…

“Berserkers were originally warriors in Old Norse literature that went into frenzies, fueled by rage. It was suggested that they might have consumed some sort of drug to do this, because they were nearly uncontrollable. Over time, it just evolved into the word berserk – which I'd say this beast creature definitely is,” Lydia explains. “Though there's not a lot of information on an actual bear-like creature existing.”

“First time for everything,” Scott sighs.

They're at lunch, hovered around a table like some weird mish-mash of social cliques brought together by the supernatural. It's like Scooby Doo, except there's no man behind a mask that can simply be arrested.

“Okay, yeah, but this thing is ferocious,” Stiles jumps in, his speech slower than usual. His energy is down. His shoulders are slumping. He doesn't look well. “And the only way we can stop it is to find out what it looks like in human form – and _then_ kill it.”

“Yeah, that's what Peter said.”

“Pfft, I don't trust him further than I can throw him.”

“Well he's the only one with any info on it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, leaning on his hand. “Fine. But if we wanna find out who this thing is, doesn't that require following it? Because I am _not_ volunteering for that.”

“Maybe there's a way to set off the transformation,” Aiden suggests, not really focusing, waving at his brother from across the cafeteria.

“Yeah? And get everyone killed? Brilliant, Aiden. Absolutely brilliant.”

“Stiles,” Lydia scolds, eying him over her diet soda.

“What? You're the smart one. Teach him some stuff.”

“Hey,” Allison greets, slumping into a seat. Isaac is dead on her heels, jumping into the seat next to her. “How's the studying going?”

“We've come up with a few things,” Scott says absently. His eyes, usually kind and open, are shuttered and dark as he glowers at Isaac. Isaac stutters his movements a bit under the intense scrutiny.

“We need to figure out something soon,” Allison sighs, running her hands through her hair. It looks a little dirty, like she hasn't washed it for a day. When she drops her hand to the table, Scott grabs it, smelling it.

“Why do you smell like Isaac?” he questions, something brutal slipping into the cadence of his voice.

“Uh... I just walked in with Isaac?” Allison's eyebrows knit together. “Why do you care?”

Scott seems to gather his wits about him, yanking his hand away, embarrassment staining his features. “Uh... sorry. Nevermind.”

Isaac looks pretty sorry too, bowing his head with a frown.

“We have another problem,” Allison says, changing the subject. “The hunters are trying to recruit me.”

“Why?”

“Because she's the best,” Isaac answers for her. “Why else would they?”

“Yeah...” Allison doesn't look like she believes that much. “But I think they might be involved in killing the Nemeton.”

“Peter said that they might be doing it to slow down the berserker – the beast that's been hanging out in Beacon Hills.”

“Hell of a price for us to pay,” Stiles grumbles. “So now we have to stop them on all sides? Awesome.”

“They may know about Derek, but they don't know about the rest of us,” Isaac says with a huff. “So we at least have that advantage.”

“Yeah, but they know that _I_ know,” Stiles groans, running his hands down his face. “Me and my big fucking mouth. I threatened them and gave it away. Eventually they'll make the connection. They're not dim by any means.”

“The blond one is. He threatened Allison.”

“What?” Scott straightens up, nails scratching the table just slightly. “Are you okay?”

She nods slowly.

“You should ask him,” Isaac adds.

Like clockwork, in walks the new kids. Jason has a large purple bruise on his neck, accompanied with spotty welts. He eyes Allison with a mixture of fear and awe.

“I'm amazed he didn't report me,” she mutters. “I could've gone to jail.”

“Woah, Allison...” Lydia is shocked to say the least. Allison is tough, but she's no killer. And the wounds on Jason's neck look just shy of lethal.

“I... I don't even remember doing it.”

“Good morning,” Ethan says, approaching with Danny. The table goes quiet, gesturing hello in various ways.

“You guys okay?” Danny asks. “You look like you've seen a ghost. All of you. Collectively. Did I miss some really bad news? Is Finstock becoming principal? What?”

“It's nothing,” Allison tries to smile it off. She's better at it than some, but her eyes give her away. “I, uh, I'm in trouble with my classes. My dad has to come up for a parent-teacher conference.”

…

“Thank you for coming to see me, Mr. Argent.”

“Of course.” Chris takes a seat across the desk from Ms. Sloan, folding his hands in his lap. “What is this about, Ms...?”

“Sloan.” She turns around in her chair and he finally gets a really good look at her.

Damn. She's beautiful. 

He chastises himself for that being his first thought. The last pretty teacher in this position had him tied up in a collapsing root cellar, ready to sacrifice him for power. Still, however wary he is, he tries to keep an open mind. 

“I'm sorry to drag you away from your family so late. I've had a very busy schedule. I tutor on the side.”

“That's very kind of you.”

“Thank you. Anyway, I need to talk to you about your daughter.”

Chris leans forward in his chair with a sigh. “Allison... she... she has a lot on her.”

Ms. Sloan nods. “She's been falling asleep in class. She hasn't turned in any homework. And her test scores have been lower than average. Now, this is my first semester teaching Allison, but according to her past teachers, she's always been a very bright and hard working girl. I just want to know if there's something that needs to be addressed.”

“Well, her mother... uh... passed away a little less than a year ago. I don't think she's taken the time yet to really grieve. Her aunt also passed away around the same time.”

“I'm sorry for your losses, Mr. Argent,” Ms. Sloan says, sympathy heavy in her voice. “I had no idea that your family was suffering such tragedy.”

He tries to smile through it but the sadness weighs on him. “We're getting by.”

“Is there anything else I need to know about?”

Mr. Argent is taken aback. There's a look in her eyes that catches him off guard, some sort of knowledge, daring him to answer.

“Like...?” He hesitates.

“Extra curricular activities? Something... or someone that might might be taking up her time?”

“I don't know if I like what you're implying,” Chris responds evenly, narrowing his eyes.

God. She looks so familiar to him all of the sudden. He peers at her curiously, taking in every feature of her face, trying to place her in the long, cloudy stream of his memories.

“I'm just wondering what she's doing that's got her so exhausted. I'm not trying to imply anything.”

There's a pause. Something in the air shifts. Chris glances out the classroom door to the dark hallway.

“Did you hear something?” Sloan asks before he can.

“Yeah, I did,” he answers, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. There's an intensity in her eyes that makes his pulse jump in his chest. It reminds him of the fierce look Victoria would get in her eyes before a hunt.

He knows he's got a gun strapped to his shoulder, hidden beneath his shirt and jacket, and a knife hidden in his boot. The rest of his weapons are in his vehicle. At the same time, he's concerned about leaving an innocent teacher by herself-- because he can smell something putrid in the air, feel the vibrations in the floor of something heavy approaching.

Something bad.

Then comes the destruction. He hears the scrape of claws and twisting of metal as lockers are ripped from the wall. A roar blasts through the school. Chris is on his feet, shrugging off his jacket within seconds. He reaches for his gun--

And he's surprised when Valerie is yanking open a drawer to her desk and drawing two of her own.

Then he remembers where he's seen her before.

“You're--” he starts.

“I was wondering when you were going to remember me,” she says, smirking. “Though to be fair my last name has changed since the last time we met.”

The beast bursts through the wall and they duck down amongst the flying sheet rock and shrapnel. Valerie bolts up above her desk and fires, bullets bouncing off the red-eyed monster with zero effect.

“Shit,” she hisses. “He's gotten stronger.”

It makes a move for her and Chris yanks the knife out of his shoe, slashing at the thing's giant paw. It whirls on him, all teeth and snarls and hulking monstrosity. Chris nearly bends backwards under its gaze.

He's never seen anything like it.

Valerie flips over her desk and out of her shoes, yanking blades out of the heels with prowess, jabbing them into the thing's arm. They make a better impact than the bullets at least. Blood leaks from the wounds and the thing wails into the ceiling, the entire building shaking under its bellow.

“Go!” She commands and Chris follows her out the door.

It gives chase.

This thing isn't on a path of destruction. It's after _her._

“Get out the door!” she yells over the crunch and crumble of the building. He dives, watching her as she pulls out a vial from her blouse, throwing it violently at the creature and slamming the door behind her. Smoke explodes inside the building.

“What the hell was that?” He knows a smoke bomb when he sees one, but he can smell the pungent odor of it from where he's at, and it's not one he finds completely familiar.

“Amanitin,” she answers, pulling him further away from the door. “Don't breathe it in. That concentration could kill you in seconds.”

Chris gapes at her.

“We have to do what is necessary,” she responds. “But trust me, that thing's not dead. Not yet.”

“Why is it chasing you?”

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, standing over him, frowning. “That's actually why I need your help.”


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Seven**

It's _actually_ snowing.

Stiles checks with his father to make sure, and yep. It's about twenty-eight degrees and snow is a-falling. It's a regular winter wonderland.

Except it's not. Stiles stares at the flakes, making their way to the ground, standing on the sidewalk outside his house. He's wearing a coat, but the wind blows right through it. Needless to say, it's a snow day. No school. The roads are dangerous and everyone is nestled away in their homes. Safe. Maybe.

Considering he knows the school was actually ripped to shreds in front of Mr. Argent's eyes, maybe they're not quite as safe as everyone thinks.

The FBI are investigating. Stiles can't get close, and Mr. Argent said that when he checked back, the monster was gone. Probably off to lick his wounds. Still, there's a lot missing from Argent's story, and Stiles isn't entirely sure he likes that.

Stiles finds himself walking for blocks. Miles. The wind bites against his skin, but he allows it to. He even unzips his coat and lets it seep through his thin t-shirt, just to remind him that he's alive, that he's real.

The weight of his mother's ghost is become heavier and heavier. The vivid images of her, drawn and pale in a hospital bed,mix with languid thoughts of how _useless_ he is. He couldn't save _her_ , after all. What kind of luck is he going to have with anyone else?

It's not like he doesn't notice it. Everyone is having intense discussions on what to do _around him._ He has zero input most of the time. He's drawing blanks, like he did with the alpha pack, when everyone needed him most.

The frigid air plays at his heels and pushes him forward, faster and faster, until he's flat out running through the city like his life depends on it. He tries to outrun all the ugly thoughts. He tries.

_What are you running from?_

He halts at the sound of the voice in the back of his head, the croaky, dying voice of his mother. He can see her dark, unfocused eyes like they're right in front of him.

_You could stay with me._

He could stay with her.

_You could stay with me._

He could stay with her.

…

Derek rubs his hands together, the crackling fire not really providing the distraction he seeks. Cora isn't home. He tells himself she's fine. She's just out grocery shopping. But he's worried. He can't help himself. He wishes she hadn't insisted on going alone. Then again, he also knows he's been driving her nuts with his overprotective hovering. He doesn't care as long as she's safe.

He hates the loft. He doesn't think he'll ever feel comfortable here again. And yet here he is, standing in the middle of it.

The door slides open. Derek lets out a breath, turning to the source, expecting Cora. But the person that enters doesn't smell like her or sound like her or look like her.

“Stiles?” he questions, raising his eyebrows at the boy.

He's nearly frozen, snow melting in his hair and on the shoulders of his coat. His entire body looks sunken in, from the deep set of his eyes and the long distinct lines of his cheek bones to the curved forward nature of his spine. Derek swallows. The Nemeton is taking its toll, most definitely.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles is shivering so hard that Derek wants to grab him by the shoulders just to steady him.

“I uh... I need help,” he says, his voice low and strained in his throat. “Um... you see, uh. This darkness thing is getting to me. A lot. And Scott's dealing with his own and all but....” Stiles closes his eyes, taking a shuddering breath, trying to hold it together and gather explanations on his lips. “Listen. My... my mom. She died when I was a kid, right? And I-- I didn't really deal with it, and I'm not really dealing with it now, and I don't know what to do. I don't even know why I'm here of all places, I just-- I don't know what to do.”

Derek remains silent, watching him with muted sympathy. There's a part of him that's infuriated that Stiles is coming to him to learn to deal with death. Derek has suffered so much heartbreak. He's not necessarily interested in letting everything that's ever hurt him be any kind of lesson to anyone else. Not all the time, at least. Yet... Derek remembers burying Laura. After everything that had happened – the fire, _Kate_ – Derek had lost his confidant. After losing his mother, Laura was the one that talked him through it, helped him deal with the grief the best way he could.

It's strange, actually. His mother helped him deal with losing Paige. Laura helped him deal with losing his mother. And, well, strangely enough, it was Scott and his little band of misfits that helped him deal with losing Laura. He's still not over it or any of the other deaths that have happened – _Erica, Boyd_ \- but he's trying. He's trying as hard as he can.

“Okay,” he responds calmly. “How are you feeling right now?”

Stiles rubs furiously at his eyes. “I'm... I'm cold and wet and sad and I want my mother.”

“I know. What do you want to do?”

“I want to stop thinking about her. But-- but I don't. I don't. Because. Because what if I forget her? What if I wake up one day and I can't remember what she _looks_ like?!” Stiles swallows a lump in his throat. “What kind of kid forgets what his mother looks like? What she sounds like? The way she smiles...” Stiles starts to cry, delicate little tears sliding down his cheeks. “Actually, I feel like maybe I _have_ forgotten that part.”

Derek casts his eyes to the floor, relating. His mother is both a distant memory and part of a constant stream of faces at the forefront of his mind. With her image comes rage – anger at the fact that she's gone – and guilt. Because it _is_ his fault that she's dead. He understands how selfish it feels to push someone so important out of sight, out of mind, in order to cope. He gets that to a high level.

“Sometimes... sometimes you have to forget a little bit. She'll never be completely gone, Stiles. Her memory and her love for you will always be with you.”

Stiles shakes his head. “N-no. No, though. I feel like the way I want to remember her – when she was healthy.... I feel like that gets dimmer every day, and I'm just. I'm just staring at her _corpse._ I don't... I don't want to see another one. Ever. Ever again. Like if I can spend the rest of my life not seeing another dead body, I think I'll be fine. Which is stupid because I didn't feel this way before. I mean...”

“You see her?”

“I see _myself._ I _envy_ the dead. I can't get a restful night. I can't get silence. I just sit around and remember how inept I am. That I'm not gonna be able to do anything and everyone else is going to die.” Stiles sighs. “Sometimes I think it might be easier if I just... just followed her into the grave or something. I miss her...”

“I'm sorry she's not around, Stiles,” Derek says after a moment.

“What do I _do_ , Derek? How do I stop thinking about her? Even when I don't want to stop?”

“It's...” Derek sighs. “It's tough.” He takes a couple of slow steps toward Stiles, the dull thud of his boots against the floor. “Focus on the good things you remember about her. The harder parts... find a way to get it out of your system. Anger is my anchor.”

He doesn't really know what to say. Grief is so complicated. Derek knows that there's no right answer to dealing with it. Everyone's different. But Stiles is seeking an answer regardless. All Derek wants to do is give him one. Because he's never seen Stiles look so lost and so small.

“I was kind of hoping for, I don't know, a miracle cure.”

“You think I'm over everyone I've lost?” Derek asks, raising his eyebrows. Stiles shakes his head. “It doesn't just go away. Some days it hurts worse than others. But take the good days with the bad.”

“And when every day gets worse?”

Derek's lips thin in concentration as he takes in Stiles's withering form. “Okay. Maybe... maybe you have a lot of pent up... bad... feelings.” Derek fights the urge to groan. He's not good with words.

Stiles gives him a look. “And you'd recommend--”

Derek gets an idea, and he's aware that it's kind of stupid. “Okay, fine. Come here.” He gestures for Stiles to get closer.

Stiles does as he's told.

“I want you to hit me as hard as you can,” Derek says. “I'm a werewolf. I'll heal. Beat the crap out of me if you have to. I won't fight back.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Be honest. Haven't you been kind of hoping for this opportunity?”

“You are right on that one.”

“That's what I thought. Come on. Hit me. Get it all out of you. Come on!” Derek commands, his voice louder, harsher, expectant. Stiles hesitates. “Hit me, Stiles. Hit me! Fucking do it!” Derek grits his teeth. He knows he's going to regret what he says next. “What, you're going to stand there and be _useless_? Just do it already! Fucking fight back, Stiles!”

That's all it takes. Stiles's tolerance threshold is low as of late. Stiles's shoes scrape against the floor and he lets out a scream, charging Derek, fists flying. Derek takes the blows. They're weak, but passionate. Derek can feel all the hurt from the way that Stiles breathes, the way his heart hammers in his chest. He closes his eyes and lets himself experience it, takes on the pain in the only way he knows how. He walls it away in a secret place. And that's when the blows actually start to hurt. Stiles puts everything he has into each punch and kick, pummeling into Derek's thick skin, bruising him with purpose and desperation.

Then it stops.

Derek opens his eyes just in time to see Stiles fall to his knees, overcome, shoulders shaking, sobs racking his entire form. This isn't the Stiles Derek knows. Stiles screams again, but it's not a battlecry. It's loud and raw and so, _so_ sad. It's like a howl, begging for company, for solace, for a savior.

Derek knows that sound too well.

He reaches out; he touches Stiles's shoulder. Stiles crumples at the contact, curling into himself. Derek drops to his knees and grabs him.

“Stiles. Get it together.”

Stiles shakes his head rapidly, wheezing between sobs, barely catching his breath. Derek pulls him in close and squeezes him, unsure of what else to do.

Trembling hands slide around Derek's torso, and Stiles weakly clings to him and cries and cries and cries.

“It's... it's okay,” Derek says. “It's okay.”

…

Scott takes a breath, claws readied. Isaac is staring him down without fear.

It's a friendly sparring match. Scott is trying to get out his aggression.

Unfortunately, Isaac is a little bit of his main problem. Not that he wants him to be. He's a little concerned about how this is going to go.

“No funny business,” Aiden says from the sidelines, sitting on a snowy bench with his brother. They're on the lacrosse field and snow is falling heavily around them, but Scott's blood feels like it's on fire. “We'll step in, you know.”

Isaac swallows. Okay, maybe he's a little scared.

There's a brief scuffle. Isaac holds his own pretty well. Derek's trained him well. Still, Scott has him pinned in a matter of minutes. Isaac nearly goes cross-eyed trying to look him in the eye.

“Scott... Scott, stop,” he stammers.

Scott furrows his brow in confusion. Then he realizes that his claws are in Isaac's side, puncturing the skin, blood leaking into the snow, staining it crimson. 

Isaac makes a strangled noise, pushing at Scott's shoulders. But Scott can't stop. He wills himself to relinquish his beta, but there's rage boiling in him, overwhelming him.

“Scott! Scott!” Ethan and Aiden tug furiously at his shoulders until they finally gain the upper hand and pull Scott away.

Isaac chokes, spits blood into the snow, holding his side and groaning.

Scott stares at the blood on his hand.

_Become a killer._

He runs.

…

“Melissa--”

“No.” She is having none of her ex-husband's begging.

“Melissa, you have to admit that things are not normal around here.”

“ _Jack_ ,” she argues back, still not letting him through the door. “I'll admit that things were a lot _better_ when you weren't here. Is that the normalcy you're talking about?”

He bristles a little under the harshness of her words. She doesn't relent. She holds steadfast, glaring him down.

“Look.” He lowers his voice, leaning in close to her. She shifts back just a bit. “My investigation has been basically on the heels of _our_ son. I need to know why. I think you _know_ something.”

“Yeah, well, I know a lot about Scott. You would too if you'd been around.”

“Melissa--”

She slams the door in his face. Damn if it doesn't feel good. Still, there's worry bubbling in her heart, because the FBI is on the tail of her son and his pack. She doesn't really know what would happen if the supernatural activity of Beacon Hills reaches federal forces. Even worse, what if they jump to conclusions? They don't have anything to charge Scott with, but it doesn't mean they can't come up with the evidence. He's been a common factor in much of the tragedy that has taken place in Beacon Hills.

She locks the door for good measure and steps away, pulling out her phone. She dials up the Sheriff.

“We have a problem.”

…

“Where are you going?”

Allison's question sounds innocent, but her body posture gives away her suspicion.

Chris pauses at the front door, bag slung over his shoulder. “To the gym. Why?”

“What's in the bag?”

“My gym clothes. You wanna tone down the suspicion, kiddo?” Chris narrows his eyes at his daughter. She doesn't look like herself. Her skin is pale and sickly and there's a strange, feral energy in her eyes that makes the hairs on his arm stand on end. “...Are you okay?”

“You're _lying_ ,” she accuses, and she sounds so much like her mother that he nearly backs into the door.

“Allison...”

“Where are you really going?” She stomps down the stairs, jaw set, like she's ready to attack.

“What's wrong with you?”

She halts on the last step, standing there like a child, her oversized sweater swallowing her and making her look even thinner. Her eyes refocus after a long moment and she starts to look a little more like herself. A little.

“Sorry...” she whispers.

The doorbell rings. Chris pulls the door open with a breath, and, lo and behold, Isaac is standing on the other side. He looks a little spooked, and a lot bloody. The entire left side of his shirt is stained red and he's got smears of blood on his fingers and jaw.

“What happened to you?”

“I'm fine. I need to talk to her.” He points past Chris, then shoves his way through the door.

Chris doesn't want to leave. But he has prior arrangements.... And it's in his daughter's best interest that he keeps to it.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Eight**

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Lydia puts down her pen, turning to her window.

An inky blackcrow sits on a snowy branch, staring through the glass. She takes a breath, gazing at it with slightly narrowed eyes, puzzled. There's a heavy weight on her chest and it settles throughout her body as she meets the creature's eyes. She doesn't like the dread it fills her with, the way it makes it hard for her to breathe.

She stands slowly and creeps to the window with shaky hands. The metal of the the latch is cool against her fingers as she yanks it open, lips parted as she breathes shallowly. Then anothercrow settles on a branch. And another. And another. She watches, horrified, as they fill the tree outside her window, shading it black, a smudged, charcoal shadow. A million, beady red eyes overwhelm the area. She swallows the fear in her throat as her eyes tear up, the freezing wind blowing through the open portal. She smells death on the air, tastes the blood in her mouth.

The crows screech in unison, piercing Lydia's ears and she screams her omen, black feathers exploding through the room, swirling around her like a hurricane. She collapses to the floor, eyes glassy and dim.

The world goes silent.

…

“Allison--” Isaac tries, but she shoves him against the wall, kissing him ferociously, forcing his jacket off his shoulders until it falls unceremoniously to the floor. “Allison-- I need to-- talk-- to you--- _Allison.”_

“Shut up!” she growls, knocking him to the floor. Isaac grimaces at his healing wound as it collides with the hardwood. She has her hand around his neck, staring down at him with feral eyes and supple, swollen lips. She takes heavy breaths, her chest heaving above him, distracting him. She smirks.

There's something cold in the way she looks at him, even with the charge of sexuality in her veins.

“Allison,” Isaac tries again as she grinds against him. It makes it hard for him to focus, to think. He scrambles for purchase against the floor before his needy hands slide up to her hips. “Allison, Scott, he--” He makes a guttural noise as she leans in, sliding her tongue over the shell of his ear. “All---” his voice starts to slur, his pulse racing.

Finally, he grabs her wrists. “ _STOP!_ ”

Her eyes are almost black, her nails scratching at his neck as he pulls it away. “What?” she whispers harshly. “You scared?” In her other hand, he notices with horror that she has a ring dagger ready to strike. It's just above his forehead and his eyes cross looking at it.

He tightens his grip on her, stares her right in the eyes. “ _Allison_ ,” he says again, slowly, pleading. “You need to listen to me. Scott tried to _kill_ me. It's getting _worse._ We need to go talk to Deaton. We need to--”

She's starting to get her wits about her again, her expression falling into confusion as she blinks the haze away from her vision. “I—Isaac...” She topples off of him, scrambling to the wall, looking lost. “I don't—”

“We need to go,” he says, sitting up, groaning at the wound in his side.

She gasps, dropping the dagger and crawling over, touching gingerly at the bloody spot on his shirt. “Did I--?” she questions, guilt pouring over her.

“No. Scott did. Which is why I'm here.”

“Isaac...” She takes a shaky breath. “Isaac, I'm _so_ sorry.”

“It's okay,” he says, giving her as much of a smile as he can muster, cupping her cheek in his hand. “Just promise me something, okay?”

She nods a little shakily.

“Next time you're gonna crawl in my lap, please lose the weapons first.”

She gives a breathy laughdespite herself. It fills him with warmth.

Then he hears a scream, blasting through the air and into his eardrums. His head snaps to the side, squeezing Allison lightly. “Did you hear that?”

She swallows. “It... it was faint... but... I think I actually did.”

…

“What's he doing here?”

Derek looks up from his book to see his sister step through the door with a couple of grocery bags in each arm. Stiles is asleep on the bed, quietly curled up. Derek may or may not have put him there and tucked him in.

He'd literally cried himself to sleep. Derek didn't know what else to do. So he put him to bed. It just seemed like the right thing.

Derek sighs. “Long story.” He gets up and takes one of the grocery bags from his sister, pulling out the items and putting them in the cupboard. “Oreos?”

“What? I wanted Oreos.”

“You're not getting any of these,” Derek chuckles, pulling open the package and popping one in his mouth.

“Derek,” Cora deadpans. “Those are _mine._ ” She rolls her eyes. “You're not even eating them the right way.”

There's a quiet little scuffle as Derek holds them out of her reach, crunching the chocolate disks between his teeth and smirking. It feels good to toy with her a little bit. Stiles has cast a heavy shadow on the loft with his grief, and it reminds Derek of too much. He wants to get his mind off of it.

Stiles sits up slowly in the bed, bleary-eyed and blinking, watching the scene. They freeze, guilty of waking him.

“Are those Oreos?”

“Yeah...” they both answer simultaneously.

“You want one?” Cora asks, not knowing what else to say.

“I do.”

Derek tosses him the package. Stiles catches it. “Thanks.”

“Are you okay?” Cora knits her brows together, peering at him with concern, visible in the hard line of her jaw.

Stiles shrugs a shoulder. “I guess.”

She glances at Derek, muttering so only her brother can hear. “He doesn't smell right. He smells like a corpse.”

“I know,” Derek whispers back.

“I'll uh. Get some milk, I guess,” Cora says aloud, making a face. “Since you two are so intent on eating my cookies.”

“You should have hidden them better,” Derek retorts, stepping over to the bed and grabbing one, nibbling on it. He watches her as she dramatically rolls her eyes and flounces off to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Stiles says, “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“You know.”

Derek shrugs. “You wanted my help, right?”

He reaches for another cookie. Stiles's hand jolts out, grabs hold, and his longfingers are warmer than they were, wrapping around Derek's wrist.

“Seriously, Derek. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” The words feel weird in his mouth. He realizes that he is very rarely thanked. Not that he has many things to be thanked for… It's nice, regardless. Stiles smiles. Derek feels the edges of his own lips quirk a little. “You know I can't believe I missed this town.” He lets the smile come slowly, sincerely, and he feels a sense of belonging, subtle, but still there, as Stiles snorts.

A screech breaks through the silence and Cora drops the gallon of milk. Stiles sucks in a breath, eyes going wide, glazed, dark. He releases Derek's wrist, and he’s toppling from the bed in a split second. Derek barely catches him before he hits the floor, and his skin is suddenly so cold.

“Stiles? Stiles!”

It takes a long moment before he's back, before he breathes again. “Lydia. _Lydia!_ ” He flails and thrashes against Derek and it's all he can do to keep Stiles in place.

Cora steps out of the kitchen, makes eye contact with Derek. He wishes he could explain.

…

“Lydia!”

Scott shakes her, and she wakes in a cold sweat, her heart pounding in her ears. She feels woozy and disoriented, reaching for the familiar face, his shoulder, something to steady her. Once she swallows a few breaths, she leans, slack against Scott's chest. Thank God someone is there.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Y-yeah. Yeah. I think so.” She glances around the room wildly for a moment, looking for any sign of the crows. There aren't even any feathers. Was it all in her head? “I hope you guys don't come running every time I see a spider or anything.”

“Do you scream when you see a spider?”

Lydia thinks on it a moment, a little humored at her own answer. “No, actually. They're fascinating.”

“So what _did_ you see, Lydia?”

She whirls back to the open window, cold snow fluttering through and piling onto her carpet. “...Birds,” she says slowly, eyes unfocused as she sifts through the memory. She quirks her head to the side and then meets Scott’s eyes as it comes back to her. “Crows, actually. Hundreds of them...”

“What does that mean?”

She looks to him, heartbroken, because she _knows_ , and she _hates_ that she knows. “Someone... someone's going to die.”

She clings to Scott because she doesn't know what else to do. She's angry that she doesn't know more. Who's going to die? Where? How? She wants to be able to prevent it. She doesn't want to find bodies. She wants to find people.

“Scott, I have to figure out how to train myself. I have to hone these abilities. I can't just wonder what the omens mean. I have to _do_ something.”

Scott crumples a little, nodding. “Y-yeah. We both have to do something.”

“Scott?”

He edges away from her, shame coloring his features. “I... I nearly killed Isaac earlier. I don't... what if that's what you were seeing? What if I'm the one that's going to kill someone?”

She looks at the blood dried under his fingernails, the red skin on his palms that she knows are from harsh scrubbing. She takes his calloused hands in her own. “We'll figure it out.”

“Lydia?” Allison clambers through the window, at least two or three weapons strapped to her.

“Here comes the Calvary,” she responds, touched. Isaac topples in behind Allison, lacking the grace of the hunter, a pile of limbs on the floor, foot still hanging on the windowsill. “I'm okay, guys.”

“Scott,” Isaac says quietly from his spot on the floor, eying Scott warily. Scott casts his eyes away.

“What happened?” Allison asks, ignoring Lydia's insistence that she's _fine, thank you_ , and checking her over for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

“Allison, I'm okay. I'm fine. I... I had a vision.”

Allison freezes, her hands gentle on Lydia's neck. “Someone's going to die.”

Lydia nods. “Yes.”

…

“You sure you're okay?” Cora asks for the umpteenth time.

“Yeah. Yeah. I'm okay. I'm okay. I think she is too.” They're headed for Derek's SUV, and even though Stiles looks more than strung out, he insists he's fine. “But it wouldn't hurt to check.”

He pulls out his phone and calls her. She picks up after a couple of rings. “Lydia? We heard your--”

“Stiles! Yeah, apparently everyone did,” she interrupts. “Is this a new number?” Stiles can hear the commotion of the rest of the pack. He catches pieces of voices from Allison, Scott, Isaac, and Ethan and Aiden – who apparently had just arrived.

“Y-yeah. My phone got crushed. Remember?”

“Oh. Okay. I'll save it.” She pauses, like she doesn't want to say anything. “Are you... are you alone?”

“No. I'm with Derek and Cora.”

“Good,” she says, relief in her voice. “Just, you know. Do me a favor and keep on your toes? I don't want anything to happen to you.”

Stiles smiles into the receiver, feeling a little warmer with her voice in his ear. “I'll try my best.”

They say goodbye and hang up. Stiles frowns at his cell phone screen, falling back behind the Hales. All of those people had come to her rescue when she needed them. And he hadn't been able to do anything. He tried to check on her, to offer her protection, and she responded with fear for his own safety, because he can't protect himself. There's no way he could protect anyone else. He's no hero. He's just walked in heroes' shadows.

“Stiles?”

Derek is holding the passenger side door open for him, watching him.

“Sorry. I'm... I'm coming.” He clambers into the car.

He's starting not to feel well at all. He feels weak and lightheaded.

Par for the course.

“We're getting more milk before he goes home,” Cora says from the back seat.

…

“You're late.”

“Sorry. I got held up.” Chris tosses his bag to the floor, the clink of weapons in it loud and obvious.

Valerie is leering over a table, dressed like she's ready for a fight. Three teens sit around her. “You haven't met my team yet. Jason, Kyle, Eve, say hello to Mr. Argent.”

The one she refers to as Jason bristles at the name _Argent_ , touching a purple bruise on his throat. “So... you're uh. Here to help us?”

“Well, to start off, you're trying to take down a giant, raging beast with simple weapons.” Chris unzips his bag and starts laying guns on the table. “Time to get out of the stone ages.”

Kyle's eyes light up. “ _Dude._ Right on.”

“This thing is threatening lives in my town. Understand that I'm here to fight the beast and that beast alone. If these weapons are used for anything else, don't think for a second I'll show you how much they hurt.”

Valerie crosses her arms, eying him with knitted brows. “In a town full of werewolves and other supernatural nightmares? I certainly hope you're kidding. The berserker is our main threat, but that doesn't mean others aren't trying to kill us.”

“Nous protegeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se proteger eux-meme,” he repeats his daughter's words, albeit not in quite as smooth a French accent. Allison has always been better with languages than he has. “We protect those who cannot protect themselves, regardless of species. That is the Argent family code.”

“A werewolf can protect itself by ripping people's throats out with its teeth,” Jason grumbles. “Not much to protect there.”

Chris frowns, yanking one of the guns out of Jason's hand. “You want my help? You better listen to me. It would be in your best interest if you do what I say.”

“Excuse you?” Eve finally speaks up, crossing her legs, leaning against the wall. “I don't know if I really appreciate you waltzing in here like you own the place just because you have a few strong weapons. And if you're afraid of anyone killing innocents, maybe you should talk to your psycho daughter.”

Chris clenches his jaw so hard that his teeth hurt. “Did you threaten my daughter?”

“More like she threatened us,” Kyle jumps in. “Nearly decapitated Jason. Maybe you should keep a better eye on _her._ ”

“That's enough.” Valerie holds up a hand to silence her squad. “I apologize, Mr. Argent. My team isn't the most welcoming bunch.” She smirks at them, a little petulant, but teasing all the way. “Shoo you three. Let the grown ups talk.”

They do as they’re told, but they're not happy about it.

“My daughter did that to him?”

“You trained her to be strong, didn't you? I was actually quite impressed with her skills. Jason isn't an easy boy to take down. To be fair though, he's probably the easiest to take down in my group. He's all passion and no thought.” She clucks her tongue almost fondly. “Regardless, you need to understand that we have a lot riding on this fight. This creature took more than one of our own. They're naturally going to get a little emotional over it.”

“Revenge is not a good reason to fight.”

“But it is a reason.”

He frowns.

“Are you going to do it? Are you going to train them in these weapons?”

“I'll... I'll consider it.” He sighs. “Valerie—”

“A lot's changed since high school, hm? We used to be young and overly passionate like them. I'm in this for the right reasons, Chris. I want to stop this thing so those kids... _my kids_ are safe. I've brought them back from the brink. They've been alone. I'm not about to let them go. Not yet.”

“So you adopted them?”

“Not exactly.” She sighs. “I just took them in. I trained them to fight those that destroyed their homes... An alpha pack.”

“Deucalion,” Chris murmurs.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Nine**

Stiles peruses the medicine aisle of the grocery store, scratching at his side. He's not feeling too hot, and though he definitely suspects the medicine will be of no aid to him, he also thinks there's no harm in trying. The problem is that he really has no clue what ails him. He scopes the Pepto Bismol, the heating pads, the cold medicine, wonders casually if he should be seeing a doctor for depression.

He did once.

After his mother died, he saw a therapist, but damn he was young, and he didn't want to talk about it because talking about it meant remembering it. He tried to carry on as a happy-go-lucky kid, worried at night about his dad's drinking, but did his best to move on. Eventually, he was happy to discover, his dad started to follow him out of the darkness. Stiles was proud to lead by example.

He just didn't expect it to all come rolling back.

He was trying his best to not think about it, even though it constantly haunted him. He didn't want his dad to know. It was like... if he started remembering, and grieving, his dad might go back to doing the same – his way. With whiskey.

“ _I miss your mom.”_ He hears his father's words, an echo in his head.

He misses her too. He doesn't want to say that he misses her _more_ , but he thinks he might. He might just miss her more than he feels anything else.

“You okay?”

He perks to a voice approaching down the aisle, sees Cora with her arms crossed over her chest. Cold. Guarded.

“Y-yeah. You?”

She nods a little uncertainly. “Yeah, I'm fine. You need medicine?”

Stiles sighs heavily, an unmoving weight in his chest. “It won't help...”

She shuffles from foot to foot, still not closing the good few feet of distance between them. “You're different.”

“I know,” Stiles admits. “I'm trying really hard not to be.”

“What if I found someone... someone to sacrifice?”

Stiles freezes, swallowing bile in his throat. “You have someone in mind?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Don't do it.” It takes everything he has to say so, and he's ashamed of that. “Don't kill an innocent person just to help me. We've got time. I think. We'll figure it out.”

“Are you sure? Because I feel like it's all just getting worse.”

“You're right. It is. But it doesn't matter. Do you think I could live with that kind of guilt? That innocent people had to die so I could live? Fuck that. I'm not that important.”

“You are to some people.” Cora spins on her heel and starts lumbering off, looking a little defeated.

Stiles follows because he doesn't know what else to do. He decides to drop the entire subject, though.

“It's getting late. There's, like, no one here.”

“Grocery stores don't do a lot of business when people are actually _eating_ dinner I imagine,” Cora grumbles, irritation clear and present in her features. “Not everyone ends up spilling milk all over the floor.”

“I got your milk,” Derek says, remarkably more pleasant than his sister – though that isn't saying much. “And look. I even got you your own pack of Oreos.”

“The first pack _was_ mine.”

“Well now _this_ one is,” Derek argues lightly, tossing it to her. She rolls her eyes, but he's getting to her. There's a smile threatening the corners of her mouth. “Delicious cookies all for you. You're welcome to eat them, dunk them, crumble them up, and even throw them at me. Though I will not give you the pleasure of not dodging.” His eyes flicker off of his sister's face to Stiles, hunched over behind her. “You okay?”

“Stop asking.” Stiles shoves playfully at Derek, but he means what he says. The more they ask, the more Stiles feels like maybe he's really not okay. Then his eyes start tearing up against his will and he pushes past the group so they can't see.

Derek grabs him by the shoulder, a heavy, hot hand weighing him to the floor. Stiles is about to protest to the sudden touch when something catches his eye.

“Hey. I know that kid--” he murmurs over the low growl in Derek's throat. Cora goes stiff next to him, eyes narrowed, dangerous. “What?”

Artie looks up slowly from the can of soup in his hand, and that's when Stiles notices the blood. He looks like he's in shock, wounded but completely unaware of the fact. Stiles doesn't understand how the hell the kid even walked into the store with the big gash on his shoulder, staining his t-shirt red. He doesn't even have a coat. Stiles sees the bloody footprints he's smeared across the floor.

The store is too quiet.

“Artie, right?” Stiles calls out slowly, cautiously. “Are you... are you okay?”

Then, Derek is shoving Stiles behind him as an arrow jolts into Artie's neck. He gurgles, toppling to the floor, then scrambles to make his escape.

“Derek!” Cora screams.

Eve dives from the top of the shelf, crossbow readied. An arrow lodges into Derek's shoulder and he roars, baring claws and fangs, eyes glowing blue. Stiles takes a shaky breath as Cora and Derek attack. Artie crawls for the end of the aisle, spitting blood, gushing blood, oh _god there's so much of it._ Kyle drops his guitar case, throwing it open and yanking some serious firepower from inside.

“Shit--” Stiles starts. Derek is headed for Eve when two bullets puncture his leg. He tucks and rolls with a yell. Bullets start littering the aisle, puncturing cans with sharp, ringing noises, and spilling soup all over. Cora attacks Kyle with a screech.

There's not just two hunters, Stiles knows. His eyes flick away from the struggling freshman, searching for Jason.

His eyes find Jason when they find their way back to Artie. He's got a gun to the kid's head.

“Good riddance,” he mutters, finger on the trigger.

“No!” Stiles yells, scrambling to his feet and tackling the guy to the ground.

“Stiles!” Derek yells, struggling with Eve, who's switched to the daggers in her boot, matching Derek blow for blow, spilling his blood on the floor. He eventually gets his foot under her and kicks her into the shelf, knocking it over in a loud clatter of exploding cans.

Kyle shoves Cora away and runs for Eve.

“Don't help me, idiot!” she yells, pushing him back toward Cora. “You're leaving yourself vulnerable!”

“I'm getting pretty fucking tired of you,” Jason hisses, grabbing Stiles by the hair, yanking him to his feet violently. Stiles grits his teeth at the stinging in his scalp. “Can you stop sticking your nose in our business?!” He slams the butt of his gun into Stiles's head and he sees stars, stumbling with his hands splayed out for some semblance of balance.

Derek's claws slash across Jason's back, and he knocks him to the floor. Stiles blinks a few times, trying to steady his vision. With Derek closer, he can hear the faltering in his breath. Something's wrong.

“Derek?” he questions, voice a little uncertain. Jason fires another bullet into Derek's shin. Derek roars, stumbling forward.

Cora slams Kyle to the floor, struggling against Eve's attack, yelling for her brother.

Derek falls to his knees, gritting his teeth. The blood leaking from his wounds is turning black. Wolfsbane.

“Wolfsbane? How did they get Wolfsbane?!” Cora yelps.

“None of your business,” Eve says, shoving the barrel of one of Kyle's discarded guns to Cora's temple.

Panic shoots through Derek's features, but no one has time to react.

When the berserker roars, Stiles can feel the sticky, hot spittle on his neck, the sheer power of the voice pushing him down. He reaches forward and clings to Derek, turning slowly, unwilling to face the giant monstrosity looming over them.

“We're going to die,” Stiles states bluntly. “Seriously, we're going to die over fucking milk and cookies.”

Derek looks like he wants to laugh. “We actually are, aren't we?”

Stiles chews his lip, grabbing Derek by the arm and pulling him to his feet. “We're going to at least run for it!”

The beast starts barreling after them and Stiles just barely grabs Cora's wrist, dragging them both around the corner. Derek's limping badly, hobbling along behind them, forcing himself to move. The floor is slick, and they slide their way out of the aisle. Derek's leg gives out only a few rows down and the others go toppling over with him. Stiles can still hear the commotion of the fight going on; it's so close, _dangerously_ close.

“Damn it,” Derek seethes, clutching at the bullet wounds in his leg.

“Derek, we need help,” Cora starts.

“Hide,” Derek commands.

“Derek, no--”

“Just _trust me!_ ”

Cora grabs Stiles before he can protest and they take off for the far wall of the store. Derek rears back, lifting his head, the flicker of the dying fluorescent lights painting him white and gray. 

The howl that bursts from his chest rocks Stiles to his core.

He realizes he's never heard Derek howl before. Cora grips Stiles tightly, exposing her throat and joining in, a harmonious, beautiful pitch that pierces through the air. Stiles actually fights the urge to join in for a second. It just seems appropriate.

The sound dies and in it's place is silence. Everything just... stops.

Derek takes a breath.

He collapses.

Stiles yells for him, but it's drowned out by the _bam bam bam_ of every shelf in the damn store toppling over like dominoes. Sirens are approaching – the police, the FBI. They need to get out. They need to get away. Stiles sees the red eyes, the limp bodies in the beast's hands. Jason is a bloody mess, hanging in the berserker's grip, eyes rolled back, skin pallid. Kyle is in no better shape.

Eve clambers over some of the fallen shelves, crunching glass with her boots, still ready to fight, even with shaking hands and broken skin.

“Let them go,” her voice is gutteral, dark eyes playing on the back of the beast. “Let them _go._ ”

She rushes the monster with nothing but a dagger in her hand, diving onto its back and thrusting the blade into its skin.

“Get Derek!” Cora yells, happy for the distraction. They shoulder Derek's unconscious form and make for the door, for a quick getaway.

Stiles looks back at Eve struggling with the monster.

“Cora... Cora, we can't leave them.”

“What?!”

“Cora, they're gonna die if we leave them there!”

“Good fucking riddance!” she hisses. “Those assholes have been chasing me and Derek across three states! They got themselves into this mess!”

“No!” Stiles yells, his voice feeling cold in his throat. “I'm not letting anyone else die!”

“Anyone _else?_ ” Cora is confused, but Stiles has already left Derek with her.

He has an idea. It's stupid and it's reckless, but it's an idea. He pulls out his wallet, yanking a small baggie from the billfold, empties the contents of it into his hand.

“Hey ugly!” he yells. The beast whirls, knocking Eve off his back and into the wall. “Didn't anyone ever tell you not to pick on girls?!”

He has to believe.

He has to believe.

He has to _believe._

The berserker charges. Stiles swallows. He throws his hand into the air just as the giant towers over him. Mountain ash falls around him and the beast, a perfect loop around them.

Stiles casually steps out. The beast thrashes against its forcefield, but to no avail. It's been halted. Temporarily. Stiles is certain that if Scott can push through that damn thing, it'll only be a matter of time before the berserker does the same. So he's on borrowed time.

“Eve! Can you walk?”

She gets to her feet with a nod, looking strung out and overwhelmed. “What--- why...” she stammers.

“Look, you want to get out of here or not?” Stiles grabs Jason under the arms and starts dragging him to the door. “Hurry up! Get your boyfriend and let's go!”

…

“Deucalion brought his alpha pack here. And they were defeated by Scott and the werewolf you actually came here to kill.”

“McCall?”

Chris's lips thin as he takes her in. He's actually a little surprised she didn't know about Scott. But, to be fair, he hadn't known at first either. And Scott was far worse at hiding it back when he was infatuated with Chris's daughter. He's not completely certain the latter part has changed.

They've been talking for hours, holed away in Valerie's living room. The garage houses their weaponry, and Chris admittedly is a little on edge having it so far away.

“Huh. Nothing surprises me anymore,” she says. “That's a lie, I guess. Seeing you surprised me.”

“Didn't you come here looking for me?”

“Yeah, actually I did. But you're different than you used to be.”

“No. I'm not. I've always followed a code, Valerie. You know that.”

She frowns. “Your mother was always so insistent on a code. Your father, not so much.”

“That's true. Women are leaders.”

“We are,” Valerie interrupts. “I respected your mother quite a bit, even if I didn't follow her methods.”

“I know,” Chris says quietly, coldly.

She gives him a sad little smile. “That was the real reason, wasn't it?”

“For what?”

“Chris, don't play dumb. That's why our little high school fling came to an end all those years ago, hm? You were more invested in the fight and the code. And that's okay. I'm asking for your help now because I know how capable you are. You taught me a lot in our short time together.”

“But I can't help you and those kids if you don't follow the code, Val. I can't deal with another _Kate_ situation. You have to understand that not all these creatures are _bad._ I wouldn't be alive right now if not for them.”

“Yes, but some of them _are_ bad, and need to be destroyed, Chris. They've destroyed innocent lives. Loved ones. And... I'm sorry, Chris, but a few good deeds does not a savior make. They do more harm than good.”

“That's not true.”

“You're saying the werewolf that murdered your wife--”

Chris stands, threatening her with his eyes to drop the subject. No. Too touchy. Definitely not a topic to be discussed.

She gets the message, eyes casting to the door to the garage. “Did you hear a car?”

They rush through the door to find Eve spilling out of the front seat of her hatchback, injured and pale.

“Eve!” Valerie runs to her, worry causing creases in her brow.

She shakes her head. “They're... worse...”

Chris looks to the table. “You took my weapons. You took my weapons with no clue how to use them and you ran off to fight?! Are you out of your _mind?!_ ”

“We thought we had a good shot...”

“That's not important right now. Sit down.” Valerie forces Eve into a chair and throws open the door to the car, dragging one of the boys out, fearful and sinking under his weight.

Chris helps lay them out, cleans and stitches their wounds.

They're only his daughter's age.

He doesn't like seeing them hurt.

...

“Stiles!”

He hears his dad before he sees him, because his dad's already got his arms around him.

“Hey,” he responds, muffled in his shoulder. “Dad. _Dad._ ”

“What the hell happened here?”

“That's a long story,” Stiles starts, but when he sees Scott's father approaching he frowns. “It was a bear.”

“A bear?”

“A bear. Yep. Big fucking bear. Just came into the grocery store and started destroying shit.” Stiles glances at the mountain ash trail, destroyed along with the rest of the grocery store. He's not sure where the berserker went, but it definitely wasn't happy.

Bummer. He was actually hoping the animal would return to its human state. No such luck. Scott's dad definitely doesn't believe him. But then his radio goes off and he has to step off into the store with his team of agents. Which is convenient because:

“Stiles!” And there's Scott and company, responding to the howl of their pack. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, even though it feels like he's lying.

“Where's Derek and Cora?”

“Deaton's. At least, they will be soon. She took off with him. I told them to go there. He got pumped full of wolfsbane bullets.”

“What?” Allison is appalled. “How-”

“Those new hunters apparently got their hands on some Argent family weaponry,” Stiles says simply; isn't even aware of his accusatory tone.

She's certainly aware of it, grabbing him violently by the collar. “What are you suggesting exactly?”

Sheriff Stilinski pushes a hand between them, gently edging her back. “Relax, Allison.”

Lydia stares vacantly at the building, snow flurries catching on her eyelashes. “I don't understand. I thought... I thought I'd feel death all over this place. But I don't. I don't...”

Stiles itches to touch her. He's been fighting darkness all day and she's the only thing holding him to the damn planet as of late.

He reaches for her hand, revels in the warmth of it. The way it makes him feel alive. “Lydia... did you have a vision?”

She nods. “I did. But. Not here. It's not here. Someone's going to die, but not here.”

 


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

  **Chapter Ten**

“Derek?” Stiles stumbles through the door of Deaton's office, the others in tow, fear catching on the edges of his features.

Derek jolts his head away from watching Deaton tend his wounds. “What?”

“Oh,” Stiles says lamely with a breath of relief. “You're okay.”

“Yeah, Deaton had the antidote. Why?”

“Lydia said someone was going to die.”

“Well, it's not me,” Derek responds, looking a little puzzled and maybe a little amused. He pauses. “Don't look so disappointed.”

Stiles makes a face. “I'm not disappointed. Now I'm just paranoid about the whole death omen thing. Remember how these things work? Omens? Death? Beacon Hills?”

“Come to think of it, it could still be you,” Cora says, picking up on Stiles's sass. “I mean, you could catch some sort of disease or something.”

“Can we not joke about death, please?” Derek groans, standing as Deaton turns to place his instruments away. “I think we've dealt with enough of it. It's not funny.”

Stiles grimaces like he's caught a chill, nodding, shuffling closer. “You know what? You're right. I'm sorry.”

Derek's eyes soften. “It's fine.” There's a long moment where he feels eyes on him, and he swallows. “Uh, anyway. What about the hunters?”

“They were pretty banged up, but they got away,” Stiles says. “How about you? Your leg-”

“It's fine. Already healing up. What about your head? That hunter clocked you pretty good.” Derek grabs Stiles by the collar of his shirt without issue, peeking at the wound with narrowed eyes.

It's a little sticky with dried blood. Derek touches it gingerly sucking in air through his nose. “Ouch.”

“I'll be fine.”

Cora clears her throat for some reason and Derek lets go.

Allison stares at the bullets on the table.

…

“A bear.” Jack looks dubious to say the least. Stilinski doesn't care. He grew up around the guy and he sure as hell knows how to give him a solid poker face.

“That's what Stiles said. I believe him. I mean, look at this mess. I don't see a human doing it.”

Jack frowns, eying the blood on the floor. “What about the security tape?”

“These cameras?” Stilinski shakes his head. “Haven't worked for years.”

The security tape is currently shoved in his glovebox, but the FBI doesn't have to know that.

…

Everyone is okay. It's a little strange, Stiles can't help but think. After grouping up, the strength of the pack has left him feeling a little more at ease. Even Scott looks less on edge as they hoof it out to the parking lot, though he does frown at Allison and Isaac clambering into her sedan. Lydia and Ethan and Aiden slide into the back seat and Scott straddles his bike.

He offers his helmet to Stiles and receives a _hell no_ as a response. “You already know how I feel about that thing.”

“I'll take him home,” Derek offers, jingling his keys. “This time, no pit stops. It's late.”

“Still didn't get my Oreos,” Cora grumbles good-naturedly, sliding into the passenger seat. “Jerks.”

Derek's still limping a little bit. “Oh get over it. I tried to be a good big brother.”

Stiles settles into the passenger seat with a grin. He actually likes hearing them bicker. It feels normal. He knows the Hales aren't well versed in normal. It's nice to see them as a family.

Specifically when he's missing his own.

“Wait,” he mentions as they roll out onto the road, Derek cranking the heat. “Wait a second. What about Artie?”

“Who?”

“Artie. The kid we saw. I know him. He goes to school with me. The hunters were shooting at him.”

Derek furrows his brow. “They were pretty set on killing him. I wonder...”

“What?”

He creeps the car through the neighborhood. “What if he's the berserker?”

“ _That_ kid?”

“Makes some sense,” Cora agrees. “I mean, just because he's little as a human doesn't mean he can't be a big fucking monster.”

“Yeah, but if he'd already been injured, why wasn't the beast hurt?”

“Maybe he can heal like a werewolf. He's got similar abilities.” Cora shrugs. “It would explain why he disappeared.”

“Yeah, Dad says there was no sign of him except for blood on the floor. And some of that was ours.”

“What about Scott's dad? Is he on to us?”

“Still clueless, but curious. I hear he's been asking questions.”

Stiles looks out the windshield. The snow is getting worse, falling in large, fluffy flakes, coating the streets in an almost ominous glow. It makes everything so bright, even at night, almost like a dream. He draws in the fog on the window.

“Thanks for coming to my rescue by the way,” Stiles says absently, swirling his finger against the glass, tracing a triskele into the fog.

“You're... welcome,” Derek replies, still not used to being thanked. He pulls into Stiles driveway and puts the vehicle in park. “Home sweet home.”

Stiles is actually looking very forward to his bed. Being around Lydia helped calm him, but he can already feel the darkness creeping up his neck. He wants to rest before it takes over completely. He hops out of the car, hesitating, like he's waiting for something. Derek and Cora catch on, giving him matching looks with raised eyebrows.

“Uhh...” Stiles says awkwardly. “You guys can, uh, stay here tonight. If you want. I mean. With all the death omens and the fighting. It's not safe.”

Derek smirks. “You scared?”

“No! Not for me at least.”

“What, you think we can't handle trouble?” Cora teases, raising an eyebrow. “I'm offended.”

“Pfft,” Stiles scoffs, taking the bait and supplying his own, “You two _absolutely_ can't handle trouble. At least, Derek can't. He nearly dies all the time!”

“He's right, Der.”

“Don't encourage him.” Derek rolls his eyes, trying his best to be irritated, but he still bails out of the car.

They casually stroll into Stiles's house.

There's something very comforting about their presence, Stiles can't help but think. Usually the house is so empty and big and lonely. He's happy to know that there's going to be someone in the other room.

…

“You're telling me you basically... woke up. On top of Isaac's crotch. With a knife to his throat? You're pretty kinky, Allison.”

“It wasn't like that, Lydia, and you know it.”

Lydia smirks. “I'm sorry if my screaming interrupted anything.”

“Lydia, it's _not okay._ I could have killed Isaac!” She flops down on Lydia's bed with a huff. “Maybe...maybe I _am_ turning into Kate. Using seduction to lure in a werewolf only to slit his throat?”

“You're not like her, Allison,” Lydia responds, dropping the joking atmosphere and putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You'll never be anything close to her.”

“But I am. I can feel myself losing control, Lydia. I could end up just like her. I don't... I have to do something.” She runs tired hands through her hair.

Lydia climbs up on the bed and starts braiding Allison's hair, gently sliding her hands through the locks like her mother did for her so many times. Allison tenses, like she's never had it done before. Which makes sense. Allison's mother certainly loved her, but Lydia's well aware how cold and stoic she was.

Allison draws her knees to her chest, easing into Lydia's hands, tears slipping down her cheeks silently. Lydia doesn't mention them.

“Scott's getting worse too. There's... there's something in his eyes now that scares me. I think it scares him too.”

“I know,” Lydia replies, thinking back on the terror in his eyes when he clambered through her window. Things are not okay. She doesn't like it. There's unease in her bones that she hasn't felt since Jennifer Blake was taking down Beacon Hills' residents in threes. She finishes with Allison's hair and wraps her arms around her, leaning into her shoulder. “It'll be okay though.”

“You think so?”

“We'll figure it out.” She smiles, patting her on the shoulders. “My turn. Play with my hair.”

Allison can't help herself. She smiles. Lydia turns around and let's Allison take a brush to her hair.

She pauses. “Lydia...”

“What?”

Allison slides a long strand of hair through her fingers, knitting her brows together, puzzled. “Your hair... it looks darker.”

A crow pecks against the window with a loud _rap rap rap_ and they jolt, gripping each other, horrified. The bird's red eyes almost look like they're glowing.

…

“Royal Flush.”

“Aw, what?”

Derek slides away poker chips, proud of his earnings. “I told you not to challenge me at poker.”

“Don't feel bad, Stiles. Boyd used to kick his ass at it all the time. Derek was out four hundred bucks once.”

Cora sips at her mug of cocoa, curled up on the couch, watching the game take place at the coffee table.

“Damn, four hundred? Glad we're not playing for money.” Stiles blinks, a little awed with the late Vernon Boyd.

“If you were, Derek would probably lose.”

“Thank you, sis. I really love your support.”

“I'm just saying.”

Stiles yawns against his will, a shudder running up his spine. It's getting chilly in the room. He thinks. He's never positive.

“You should go to bed,” Derek says, all stern and protective as is his nature. “It's late. You've got school.”

“With it snowing like that?” Stiles points to the window. “Doubt it. We've already got the FBI here. Next it'll be the national weather service trying to figure out what the hell is going on in Beacon Hills.”

Derek rubs at his eyes, looking weary. “We really don't need anymore people poking their heads into our business.”

“We've got police and government agents and hunters and a big, scary, _bear thing_. Yeah, I'd say we're in pretty deep.”

“Well anyway, I've kicked your ass enough for one night. Time for bed.” He hops up and offers Stiles a hand. He takes it. Stiles feels a little weak on his feet and thinks for a minute of just holding on, but he let's go.

“That's fair. You guys can stay in the guest room. I have an air mattress too. And lots of blankets.”

Derek actually looks a little amused, ushering him to the stairs. “I think we can handle ourselves, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs his way up the stairs, yawning, feet heavy, thudding against the steps. “Fair enough. Make yourselves at home. You know where I'll be.”

When he disappears behind his bedroom door, Cora touches Derek's arm. “You're worried about him.”

Derek sighs. “Allison and Scott are similar in that their biggest fear is themselves. The darkness in their hearts reflects that in the violence of their actions.”

“And Stiles?”

“He fears losing people. He won't get violent as much he'll just... fade away. From everyone. From everything. His darkness is grief, not anger.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means he's in more trouble than Scott and Allison are. He's fading away from his anchor instead of pursuing it. And that means he's getting worse-- _faster_.”

Cora takes it all in quietly, looking up the stairs as if she's waiting for Stiles to come running back down. Just before Derek breaks the silence, she surprises him.

“You know how that feels, don't you? The fading away that you're talking about? The grief being darkness?”

Derek is too stunned to respond.

…

“I must say I'm a bit surprised to be seeing you of all people.” Deucalion crosses his arms over his chest. The bitter wind carries the snow over the landscape like waves.

“Yeah, well I hear it's kind of a surprise you're seeing anything at all,” Peter responds with ease, looking smug.

Deucalion's eyes darken. He's far from amused. “You certainly have a mouth on you.”

“Oh, but I do.” Peter speaks like he's flirting, but the threat is very clear.

“Well if it is so powerful, I'm afraid I don't understand why you need my help.”

“I don't.” Peter shrugs, nonchalance floating in the line of his shoulders. “I'm sure Scott would certainly love it, but then again, when have I ever given a shit about what Scott McCall wants?”

“Alright, Hale. What is it _you_ want then? Because I certainly don't like having my time wasted by a little piss-ant like yourself.”

“Oh, I thought that was obvious. I'm here to kill you.”

Deucalion chuckles. “You can't be serious. A lowly little beta like you, threatening _me_ with death?”

“You were threatened by Jennifer Blake.”

“She was more dangerous than you.”

Peter bares his claws. “Care to bet on that?”

Deucalion does the same. “Absolutely.”

…

“Alan.” Morrell is a bundle of nerves when she slips through the door of the veterinarian's office. He's still cleaning Derek's blood off examination table when she interrupts. He hasn't been alone long.

“What is it?” he asks her, concern bubbling in his chest, because he _knows_ that expression, and knows that it can't be good.

“I went to examine the Nemeton.” She crosses her arms and continues before he can provoke further explanation. “Alan, the Nemeton isn't just being poisoned. Something is leeching the power from it further, killing it faster. That's why it's reaching out to Scott and his friends.”

Deaton takes a shallow breath. “But what on earth would have the ability to do something like that?”

“I don't know. In all my years of research, I've never heard of anything like this happening.” She hesitates, a little antsy. “But we have to do something. The Nemeton's not going to last another couple of days. The kids are going to be in a lot of hell.”

Deaton throws the disinfectant, and the rag he's been using, down on the table, the clang it makes reverberating through the room. “And so are we.”


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Eleven**

Stiles stands, stock still, in the center of his bedroom.

He can hear a breathing machine. He can hear a heart monitor.

He covers his ears with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut, but the sound doesn't go away, doesn't even relent. The room feels cold, the way hospital rooms do. His nose fills with the smell of disinfectant, gagging him. It grows and grows and grows, the hospital room overwhelming his senses and taking control. His face contorts as he struggles against it.

When he opens his eyes, it all vanishes.

His mother is standing in front of him, flesh clinging to her bones, as if she is a shadow of a person, a mere skeleton smiling at him in her hospital gown.

“Hello sweetheart,” she greets with love in her eyes.

Stiles takes a shaky breath.

“I sure have missed you,” she says softly.

…

“Lydia,” Allison gasps, sitting up on the bed. She doesn't remember falling asleep, but all the lights are off and Lydia is curled up in the bed next to her. She stirs at Allison's voice, grumbling a little bit as she wakes.

“Allison?”

Allison clutches at her chest, arching off of the bed, heels slipping on the covers as she tries to inhale. Her lungs feel hollow. She can't breathe. Her vision blurs as she thrashes, toppling off the mattress and onto the floor. Voices in her head hit her at once, exploding in volume, ripping apart her own thoughts and replacing them.

She hears Kate's voice, saccharine and sinister. _Sleep? We've got too much to do, babe._

“Allison!” Lydia is shaking her, panic stricken. Allison can see it in the whirl of vision before her eyes, but she's paralyzed, frozen, still.

She doesn't feel like herself. She can feel the remnants of her soul slipping from her fingers.

Lydia is a banshee. She's dangerous. She needs to go.

No.

Allison screams, flailing wildly against Lydia's hold, but she's not fighting the girl on top of her. She's fighting the urge to get the knife out of the holster on her leg. She's struggling not to put her hands around Lydia's neck.

When she breaks free, she runs from the room, tries to put as much distance between her and her best friend as possible. She leaves her coat and keys behind, taking off into the snow.

It's a fucking _blizzard_. She's already ankle deep in snow, the crystals of ice spilling over the tops of her boots. She pushes through anyway, trying to shut Kate out.

A howl breaks the air, loud and menacing. She halts.

Scott. It's _Scott_. She knows that howl like it's her own, as if she tipped her own head back and let the emotion split the air with sound. But the stir it creates in her blood is not the same as it was. She doesn't feel the urge to touch him, to go to him. She doesn't feel the hurt of longing or the warmth of real friendship. She doesn't even recognize the chilly bite of fear in her gut that has always secretly thrummed in her when Scott wolfs out.

What she does feel, however, is a sudden, powerful rage, urging her in his direction. She charges for the tree line, blood rushing in her veins. She doesn't even feel the cold.

“Allison! Come back! Allison!” Lydia is chasing her, red-faced and terrified. Crows are flying overhead, screeching, black feathers fluttering down into the snow. “ _Allison!!_ ”

…

“Come on, baby.” Stiles's mother's voice is gentle and sweet.

He follows blankly, as if his will isn't his own. As much as he wants to go with her, he knows he's not actively making the decision. He creeps quietly down the stairs and to the front door.

He hesitates. He peeks through the darkness in the living room.

Derek's asleep on the couch, his chest rising and falling peacefully. It actually gives him pause, because he's never seen the guy look so comfortable. He's still rigid, yes, tucked up against the arm of the couch with an old blanket and pillow. Cora's nowhere to be found. Stiles assumes she's in the guest room upstairs.

Of course Derek let her take the bed, of course he did.

“Leave him, Stiles,” his mother says. “You don't need him.”

Stiles holds steady in his spot, his brows knitting together at the thought. “What?”

“They don't need _you_ ,” his mother says, her voice shifting ever so slightly. She's right. Stiles walks out the door.

The air cuts through him, so cold that he actually can't breathe for a moment. But then his mother takes his hand, warm and welcoming, and she pulls him forward. “It's okay, Stiles. They don't need you, but I do. I'll always need you. Come with mommy.”

…

“Scott?” Melissa pushes open Scott's door, her breath hitching in her throat, because she knows the noises that came from his room are not normal.

He's gone. His room is destroyed. There are claw marks in the wallpaper.

“Scott?!” She feels the panic immediately, pulling out her phone. She calls the Sheriff. She doesn't know who else to call. “Shit. Shit shit shit!”

“Hello?” he answers.

“John--”

“Melissa? It's a little late,” he muses. Then, more serious, he adds, “Are you alright?”

“Scott's missing. Something's wrong.”

“Have you talked to Stiles?”

“No.”

“Okay. Just... just stay calm. He probably hasn't gone far. I'll see if Stiles knows where he is and then I'll come your way, okay? Try to call Scott.” He pauses. “If you can't... if we can't find him, call Mr. Argent. He should at least be able to track him.”

She takes a shuddery breath. “Okay. Okay.”

“Melissa.”

“What?”

“It's gonna be okay.”

…

“I told you it was fucking stupid. But you wouldn't listen.” Eve folds her arms across her chest, watching Jason's tattered and taped up back as he slinks out of bed to check his wounds in the mirror. “You both could've died. Both of you. What would you do then? What would happen to your cause?”

Jason breathes heavily through his nose, ultimately ignoring her, though Kyle looks apologetic.

“We couldn't just let him get away,” he says softly. “I mean, that... that _thing_ is responsible for so much--”

“I know,” Eve says, cutting Kyle off. “And what I'm saying is that I don't want any more heartbreak in my life at the hands of that creature or any other one. Don't you think we've all had enough of that for a change?!”

Jason snorts. “So you want to just let them destroy everything? Fine, Eve. Let 'em. But I'm going to keep fighting.”

“You know that's not what I want. I just don't think we should be going into these things unprepared.”

“We had all the weaponry we needed. We were interrupted by that fucking werewolf and the Stilinski kid. We could have taken him down-”

“That _Stilinski kid_ is the reason you're alive right now.”

“Fuck that! We would have finished him off if Stilinski hadn't stopped us!”

Eve chews her lip, leaning into the wall. She sighs. “Look at you, Jason. You were damn near ripped to shreds. You want to fight? Be my guest. But don't go running into a fight with weapons you don't know how to use and with no plan at all!”

“Can you two please not argue?” Kyle groans. “I'm too sore and tired to deal with this right now.”

“Well get over it!”

The three turn to the doorway. Valerie stands strong and furious.

“How dare you. How _dare you!_ ” She forces Jason into a chair next to Kyle and Eve, and whirls on them, a lioness, feral and ready to strike. “I leave you alone for _five minutes--_ ”

“Val, we're sorry--” Kyle starts.

“Don't. Just don't.” She huffs. “I have been busting my ass to take care of you three and you run off and nearly get yourself killed?! No. I enlisted Mr. Argent to help us and now he doesn't trust us. And you apparently don't trust _me_ , because you thought for _one second_ that fighting on your own was a good idea. We are a _team._ How _dare_ you disrespect me and worry me! Sorry doesn't cut it here. It doesn't.”

“Yeah, you know where else it doesn't cut it?!” Jason fires back. “Funerals. All these people walk up to you and tell you how fucking _sorry_ they are, and it doesn't mean anything. It doesn't help. I'm tired of these monsters controlling our lives. So maybe when I saw an opportunity to grab a gun and fill one full of bullets I took it.”

Silence follows. Jason doesn't back down. He looks Valerie right in the eyes, fiery and hurt.

“Maybe I want to destroy their lives the way they destroyed ours. They deserve it!”

Eve casts her eyes away. Deep down, she knows she feels that way too. She just isn't sure it's the right thing to do anymore.

Hurt only begets more hurt. If Jason had killed the Stilinski kid, what would he have done to the Hales? What about vice versa? Would that really make anything any better? It would just be more death. More bodies. More funerals.

More apologies.

She wonders how many people have the same look in their eyes that Jason does.

He sighs. “I do trust you, Val. I do. I just don't want to wait around when I could be out there _doing_ something.”

“Dying is a verb that I don't want you doing. You're lucky Chris was here to help stitch you up. God...”

“It was my idea, Val. Don't get mad at Kyle and Eve for it.” Jason looks past Valerie to the window, a little shame coloring his cheeks. Then his eyes shift, focusing on the events outside. “Good God. Look at the snow.”

Valerie turns on her heel. “What the hell?”

…

Derek sits up as soon as the door slams open. The Sheriff looks a little taken aback at the company.

“Where's Stiles?”

“Upstairs sleeping. Why?” Derek's already on his feet, heading after the older Stilinski.

“Scott's missing.”

He throws open Stiles's door. Derek's heart drops.

Stiles isn't there.

“What?” Derek breathes. “H-how could he slip by me? I would've heard...”

The Sheriff starts racing through the house in search of his son. But he's not around. Derek can smell Stiles all over the place, but none of it's current. He thinks of Lydia's premonition.

“Where are you going?!” Cora yells after him, having heard the whole thing, chasing him down the stairs.

Derek pulls his jacket on and shoves his feet into his boots. “I'm gonna find him.”

“Derek--”

“Get in the car or don't. I'm going to find him!”

Cora shuts up and gets in the car. Derek looks to the Sheriff, and he can see the weight on the man, the fear in his eyes. He tries hard to come up with something to say, something that he can do, but he comes up blank. He wonders if that's why he failed as an alpha. He's not a leader.

He thinks of Boyd and Erica. He thinks of Laura.

He can't let another person die without doing something about it. He just can't.

He clambers into his SUV and pulls out onto the snowy streets. It's not easy to see, even with his increased senses. It's a complete white out. His heart is pounding in his ears and his chest feels hollow. Something bad is going to happen.

He punches the gas.

…

“Allison!”

Lydia is doing her best to keep up, breathless, chasing her best friend as she goes off on some red-eyed spree. She heard the howl too. It pushes her to keep going, even though her lungs are on fire and her side is aching, because Allison can't kill Scott. Lydia can't let Allison kill Scott. But she's wearing out. Damn, she's just not built to go for a lovely sprint in the snow.

“Please,” she begs, stumbling, “Allison, _please stop._ ”

When Allison does, it's not for the reason Lydia hopes.

There's blood in the snow, little droplets painting it red. Among the trees, the hulking shadow of the berserker hunches and creeps along. It whimpers in pain, grunts and grumbles, then halts and cranes its neck at the two of them. Lydia breathes fear.

Not good. Definitely not good.

Scott is nearby. He has to be. Lydia isn't so certain that she and Allison can take on the beast, even injured as it is. It looks a lot scarier up close, outside of the pages of her books. Her knees are knocking together, and her body temperature has nothing to do with it. Crows are piling into the trees, watching with beady eyes, over long, crooked beaks. She reaches out, grabs Allison by the tail of her shirt, her hands trembling so badly that she can hardly keep hold. Allison takes a quiet step back, her boots crunching in the snow, until she is flush with Lydia's body. Lydia glances at Allison's profile from over her shoulder. The rage in her face dissipates, vanishes, replaced with fear, with uncertainty.

“The Nemeton is almost dead,”she whispers. “That... that beast is looking for it.”

It roars. The birds caw and screech from the wavering branches.

“Run,” Lydia says in a low voice.

Allison grabs Lydia's hand and they rush into the trees, the berserker hot on their trail. Lydia can feel the earth shake with fallen trees as it blows through the woods after them. Lydia feels tears pricking her eyes, but she forces herself forward. The bear-like monster is not the only thing following them. Black feathers are raining down on them like they're snowflakes and Lydia just wants to shake it all away. She doesn't want anyone to die. She doesn't want anyone to die. She doesn't--

It swipes at them. Allison loses her footing and they topple over into a bank of snow, frozen white powder flying around them. Lydia scrambles for her best friend, turning to see the red-eyed monstrosity towering over them, blotting out the light of the moon with it's sheer mass.

Lydia screams.

…

Derek slams on the brakes, Lydia's scream piercing the air. The SUV skids and fishtails on the ice before sliding to a halt.

“Lydia,” Cora says, breathless.

Derek bails out of the car, eyeing the treeline, knowing where the scream originated.

But then he sees footprints, filling in fast with the falling snow, but there all the same. 

_Stiles_.

He's faced with a dilemma. Lydia is in trouble. But Stiles... well, he doesn't even know about Stiles. But he _knows_ that Stiles isn't well and that he has to do something.

“Derek!” Cora yells over the wind. “What do you want to do?!”

Derek takes a deep breath through his nose, then charges after the footprints, in the opposite direction of Lydia.

He wishes he didn't have to make the choice, but he sticks to it. He follows the remnants of Stiles's scent, squinting through the snow, trying to see any sign of him. He runs for what feels like miles with ice in his lungs.

Then he sees him.

The lake is frozen over and Stiles is dazed, silently making his way across it, like the wind is carrying him, light and constant.

“Stiles!” Derek yells, but he isn't heard.

…

Scott roars, throwing himself into the chest of the berserker before it can attack. Lydia turns away as trees splinter and explode around her. Allison squeezes her eyes shut with a groan, a smear of fresh blood staining the pure snow, trickling from her shoulder. She pushes herself to her feet, her hair hanging in her face.

“Scott!” she calls out, her voice raw and pained, like she's fighting everything she has in her. She falls in to fight alongside him.

Lydia sits in a mix of mud, slush, blood, and feathers. She's had the vision. Someone is going to die. She can't prevent it. She can't do anything about it. Someone is going to die.

She watches Allison and Scott fight a battle they can't win, because they're overwhelmed with their own internal struggles. They're trying harder not to kill each other than they are trying to kill the beast.

She doesn't even feel the cold at this point. She's numb to it. She's numb to everything-- the flashlights approaching, the yells, the bullets.

She doesn't even see them. 

What she does see are the crows, the ravens, swooping around completely unnoticed by her company, Allison and Scott, and the hunters that have descended on them. They're too wrapped up in the fight, but Lydia looks past it all. And she sees a familiar face, staring her down, red-eyed in the wood.

“It's you,” she whispers.

When the bullet hits her chest, everything goes silent. 

She doesn't even hear the breath leave her body, the crunch of her body against the snow.


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Twelve**

Stiles hears it before he feels it. It's like an audible snap, like a rubber band popping, making his ears ring. Suddenly, his mother vanishes right before his eyes. She's washed away in a blink, gone forever, her warm presence dissolving into a freezing pit in his stomach, and he can't breathe. He can't even think. Everything spins around him, and the world begins to shift and stretch in front of him, transforming into something terrifying. Shadows take on life, screeching and surrounding him in the form of beasts. Whispers begin filling the air.

_It's over. She's gone. You're gone. You're nothing. It's over. No one wants you. Just get out. You're nothing but a burden. You'll never help. You'll never be a hero. You're not a hero. It's over. She's gone. You're gone. It's over._

Stiles shoves his hands over his ears, tears coming against his will. Stumbling backwards, he shakes his head, like he can knock the words out of his skull, but they remain, growing in volume and intensity, layering on top of one another until it's all just a roar of negativity.

And then, over it all, he hears his dad's voice.

_It's your fault. You killed her and now you're killing me._

Stiles falls to his knees and screams, slamming his fists down onto the ground. It shudders and shakes underneath him, and then he's underwater. He gasps, gulping water instead of air, feeling like it's tearing through his skin. It's so cold. It's so cold. It's so _cold._

Darkness surrounds him, clinging to him, pulling him down, and his limbs feel heavy and weak. He struggles to move them, but then, he figures, what's the point?

He feels no ties to the world. It's like he never existed. He floats in nothingness, releasing his oxygen in a long stream of bubbles, and he sinks.

And he sinks.

And he sinks.

…

“Stiles!” Derek's voice almost cracks when he sees Stiles fall through the ice, and he's yanking off his boots and jacket in a matter of seconds.

“Derek, what are you doing?!” Cora screams after him. He just shoves his clothing into her arms, stripping down to just his jeans.

He doesn't answer her. He rushes the ice and dives in after Stiles.

The water hits him like a wrecking ball, knocking the wind out of him because it's so fucking cold. His skin feels like it's retracting against his bones, trying to get away from the overwhelming sensation. He grits his teeth, forcing his eyes open, searching for Stiles in the dark, but he sees nothing. He thrashes against the water, desperation scratching inside him like clawed hands, trying to dig their way out of his stomach.

He has to calm down. He can't do anything in the state he's in.

He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, he's standing in a dark hospital hallway, and the world around him is silent. He glances around, a bit confused and a little wary. He doesn't mix well with hospitals. He almost always ends up getting the crap beat out of him in these places. He clears his throat, because it's so damn quiet he's certain he's gone deaf, but it echoes down the hallway, stretched out before him, like it's waiting for him.

So he starts to walk.

The hallway goes for what feels like miles, even though he's certain it can't possibly be that long. His bare feet are cold against the tile. He creeps forward, eyes searching for clues, when finally the silence breaks.

He hears Lydia, little, gentle, girlish sobs just a whisper on his ears. _I'm sorry_ , she keeps saying, _I'm so sorry._ They fade away into silence. Derek touches his chest. When he pulls his fingers back, he sees blood staining his fingers.

“Lydia?”

He turns back. The hallway is black behind him, not even a flickering fluorescent light illuminating the path he's walked.

He hears a heart monitor. He hears a breathing machine. Derek quickens his speed.

At the end of the hallway, there's an open door, nestled off to the left corner, light spilling out on to the linoleum. Derek touches the doorway, and he peeks in, feeling oddly like he's intruding on something private, something special.

There's Stiles. He's sitting in a chair by the bed, hands folded around another. The body is covered with a white sheet, stark and blatant compared to everything else. The hand he holds is mere bones, skeletal. Stiles cries, breath hitching, tears rolling down his face. Derek hovers in the doorway.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles says, “I'm so sorry.”

“Stiles.” Derek doesn't want to say anything. This moment is so personal, so private. He understands grief and knows how experiencing it publicly is the worst part of it. He doesn't want to interrupt. Stiles deserves to grieve his mother. He deserves to do that.

But there are pressing matters to attend to.

Stiles lifts his head slowly, bewildered, eyes still bright with tears. “D-Derek?” His voice is small and lost, like a child's.

“Stiles, we gotta go,” Derek says quietly.

“N-no. No!” Stiles cries out, clutching to his mother's hand, shaking his head violently from side to side. “No! I can't!”

“She's gone, Stiles. Come with me. We have to leave here.”

“I don't want to leave. I'm... I'm safe here.”

“Stiles--”

“I don't-- I don't feel _alone_ when I'm with her...”

Derek swallows a lump in his throat. “You're not-- You're not alone, Stiles.... But she can't help you now. She's gone. I know you want her to come back but... but she's gone.” Saying the words, Derek tries not to think about how they apply to him. He tries. “Stiles. _Stiles,_ get up. There are people here, _now_ , who need you.”

“They don't need me,” Stiles mumbles. “I have no connections to this world. No one needs me. Every one just ends up dead.”

Derek holds out his hand. “Stiles. _Please._ ” Derek's hand is shaking. He fights back his own tears. “Stiles. I know... I know it's hard okay? I know it is. B-but. You have to... you have to move on. There is... there's so much good in the world. And I know sometimes it's hard to see it, but it's there. That's not your mother, Stiles. She wouldn't want you to stay here with her. She would want you to get out, live your life. Fall in love. Do crazy things. She'd want you to grow up. You've made her so proud, Stiles. You can keep doing that. You just have to get out of the dark.”

“I'm so scared,” Stiles whispers.

Derek feels a couple of tears roll out of the corner of his eyes. “I'm scared too,” he admits. “All the time. But... I have to get up every day and deal with it. My sister helps. People like you and Scott help.” He swallows, and continues, a little more shakily than he'd like to. “When... when Boyd died... you offered me a hand. You... you _reminded_ me that it wasn't over. Let me do the same for you. Stiles, please, take my hand.”

Stiles moves slowly, placing his mother's hand on the bed. “It happened so fast, y'know?” he whimpers. “I never even got to say goodbye. I was just a kid.”

“Come on, Stiles. It's gonna be okay.”

“How do you know?”

“I don't. But it will be.”

Stiles crosses the floor, slowly taking Derek's hand. Then he collapses into Derek's chest, sobbing. Derek envelops him with his arms and he actually cries too. Gigantic waves of water blow through the windows, engulfing the two of them. Derek clutches Stiles for dear life.

He breathes water, his lungs protesting as he comes back, still under the ice, freezing. His entire body feels numb, but he can still feel the weight of Stiles's body in his arms, unmoving. Derek swims for the surface. His arm breaks through first, claws scratching at the solid ice, and he uses all the strength he has to pull himself and Stiles up. His body isn't working at full capacity. He's breathing steam and choking on the water in his throat, dragging the limp, skinny body from the depths.

“Derek!” Cora screams, but Derek's in autopilot, crawling to his feet and pulling Stiles along to the shoreline. Only when his knees give out does he realize that he's not in good shape.

He shakes Stiles. “Wake up!” he slurs. “Wake up!” Cora shoves Derek's jacket over his shoulders, but he pushes her hands away. “ _WAKE UP!_ ”

Cora's hands are so hot on Derek's shoulders as she pulls him back. “Get to the car!” she yells over the wind. “Derek, for fuck's sake! Please!” She scoops Stiles up onto her back, hunching over and dragging Derek by the arm back to the SUV, still running, windshield wipers flying.

Derek collapses into the back seat next to Stiles's body, dizzy.

“We've got to get to a hospital.” Cora is panicking. Her voice is raw from screaming, her jeans and hands caked with mud. She runs around to the hatch of the SUV, unfolding blankets and throwing them at Derek. “Wrap up, Derek. You guys have to get warm.” She slams the door on them, clambering into the driver's seat. She has to pull the seat forward with shaky hands, creeping the vehicle back onto the street.

She's only driven a handful of times.

“Put the fucking blanket around you, Derek!” Cora commands.

Derek does as he's told, confused. He pulls Stiles close to his chest and wraps the blanket around them both.

He can feel Stiles's breath, shallow and light, against his collarbone.

…

Crows screech, swarming the berserker, the hunters, everything.

But Allison's world shuts down the second Lydia hits the snow. It's like everything just slows to a complete stop as she whirls on her friend, sees the mixture of their blood where she lays.

She never even realizes she's screaming. Scott's arms are around her, strong but struggling to hold her until she eventually breaks free, toppling forward.

Lydia is cold. Lydia is quiet.

Allison pushes her fingers to Lydia's neck, feels desperately for a pulse, her other hand pressing down onto the wound in her chest. Nothing.

There's nothing.

She looks down at the wound, the bullet fragments that are so familiar, swathed in blood.

“Who did this?” she asks, her voice low and dangerous. Then she turns, weapon readied. “ _WHO. DID. THIS?!_ ”

The berserker roars, swiping in her direction. Scott dives, pushing her and Lydia's limp body to the ground. He yelps as the claws dig into his back.

The hunters fire. The berserker retreats.

They make move to follow, but Allison stops them.

“No!” She gets to her feet, steps over Scott's injured, crumpled form, raising her dagger. “Answer me. It was one of you. I. _KNOW. THESE. BULLETS._ ”

Eve, Kyle, Jason, and Valerie. All four of them look horrified and confused. Friendly fire? No.

“Allison--” Valerie starts, trying to keep the situation cool. “None of us--”

Allison jabs her ring dagger into Valerie's shoulder and she shouts. The other three make move to attack, but Valerie holds up a hand, stopping them. She seethes a little at the wound, sucking in air through her teeth, eyes ferocious, but jaw squared and calm.

“Allison. I am the only one among the four of us with a gun, and I never shot her.”

Allison's eyes are darker than they've ever been. “Only one?”

“Yes, Allison.”

“Oh. Okay.” She's frighteningly calm as she pulls away. “You kill my friends?” Then, she snaps, digging her dagger into Jason's chest, just below his sternum. “I kill _YOURS!_ ”

“Allison! _NO!_ ” Scott yells, scrambling on the snow, away from Lydia's body. He grabs her by the ankle and pulls her down, taking her weapon and throwing it off into the trees.

Jason wheezes, holding his chest, toppling to his knees.

“Let go of me, Scott,” Allison threatens, a hand curling around his throat.

“No!” Scott growls, eyes glowing red, claws digging into her.

He can kill her. He's perfectly capable of killing her. In her grief, Allison thinks that for a second, maybe that's not a bad thing.

She falls apart, crawls away from him, reaches for Lydia. Her best friend. Her _best friend_.

Her best friend.

It's not fair. She's already lost so much and fought so hard. This is just another blow. She's tired of finding the bodies.

_Finding the bodies is for weaklings._ The voice in her head takes on undertones of Kate. _The one leaving the bodies has the real power._

She makes to attack again.

Scott apologizes. “Allison. I'm so sorry.” Then he pins her down, knocking her head against a tree stump.

She sees stars. She sees darkness.

A crow screeches. It sounds like it's crying.

…

By the time the ambulance arrives, Scott is more than strung out, trying to keep his cool. When he sees his dad, it gets harder.

“Hey Dad,” he greets, his voice rough. He's pretty certain he's going to vomit, because there's too much swirling in his head and none of this can _possibly_ be real.

But it is. Lydia's dead. She's dead. She's--

Scott wavers a little on his feet and his dad grabs him by the shoulders, steadying him. “Scott? Scott. What happened here?”

“Nothing,” Scott says, even though that's very clearly bullshit. He's just too exhausted to come up with anything else. “I don't know.” He doesn't want to answer questions. Honestly, he'd really like a little comfort, because a girl that he really cares about a lot is fucking dead, and his ex girlfriend is delusional, and frankly, his entire planet is crumbling at the seams. Maybe he doesn't want a _fucking discussion right now._ Maybe he wants a _fucking hug._

“Scott!” Sheriff Stilinski breaks through the group and Scott cannot contain the relief in his bones at the sight of a friendly face. He tries his hardest to hold it together, even though his eyes are pulsing from the uncried tears. “Scott, are you okay?”

That's the question his father should've asked. It enrages Scott that it wasn't.

“Not really,” he responds, his voice hoarse, closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe. “Lydia... Lydia she got--”

“There's no body out there,” says one of the deputies traipsing out of the wood.

The snow has halted for the time being, lying in huge piles all over the place.

“Wha--” Scott starts, still unsteady, the statement knocking him even further for a loop. “N-No. She was there. She was--”

“There's nothing out there, kid.”

Scott nearly snaps his neck in how quickly he looks to Allison, being patched up by the EMTs. Jason and the others are gone. Valerie took off with them. Scott can only hope that Jason survives Allison's assault. Though her face doesn't currently carry regret for it. She just looks angry. Angry and hurt, and now confused.

“I told you exactly where she was,” Scott argues, pushing through the group and trudging back down into the broken down forest, searching for her.

Her body is gone. It is actually gone.

“What destroyed this place, Scott?” his dad asks from behind him.

“Nice to see you too, Dad,” Scott spits back. “Now go fuck yourself.” He runs his hands through his hair. “She was... she was _right here._ I swear to God. She had no pulse. She died right here.”

Stilinski puts a hand on Scott's shoulder, comforting, strong. “I believe you, Scott. Your mother's been worried sick about you. What do you say we take you to the hospital, get you checked out, and we'll figure it out from there? I've got deputies all through these woods looking for your friend. We'll find her.”

“Stilinski, I really think Scott needs to answer some questions.”

Scott grimaces. His back is still healing and his head is still spinning. The darkness in his gut is making him feel sicker.

“He _needs_ a second to get his head together, Jack. He's in shock. He's freezing. He's _not okay_ , and you as his _parent_ should be a lot more aware of that.” Sheriff Stilinski guides Scott away from his father in a huff, letting him sit in the passenger seat of the cruiser. “Scott. Are you alright? Talk to me. You're not yourself.”

“I haven't been myself for a while,” Scott admits, rubbing at his eyes, exhausted and upset. “I uh... I don't know what to do. I wish I knew what to do.”

“Take a breath, Scott. Just take a second.”

He does. He feels only minutely better. “Why isn't Stiles with you?”

The Sheriff's face goes white. “I thought he was with you.”

…

Stiles stirs. His head hurts. Everything hurts.

He coughs up water, flopping over on his side and spilling the contents onto the floorboard of Derek's SUV. Strong hands hold tightly to him, but they shake and waver against their nature. When Stiles curls back around, he sees Derek, shivering violently, but fighting it with all his will. He's got little droplets of water all over him and he looks tired and strung out and scared.

“Wh-what?” Stiles stammers, choking on fresh oxygen, the heat in his lungs.

Derek just yanks the blanket back around their shoulders, leaning against the back seat of the car, exhausted.

Something's different. Stiles can feel it. The places where Derek's fingertips touch his skin tingle, creating some odd sense of longing in him.

Then he realizes how cold he is. Holy shit. He curls into himself and squeezes his eyes shut, trembling, willing the pain out of his frozen limbs. The heater of the car is blasting into the back seat, but Stiles isn't positive he'll ever be warm again.

“W-w-what the h-h-hell happ-p-pened?” he breathes into Derek's shoulder.

“You f-fell through th-the ice,” Derek responds.

“You s-saved me?” Stiles's voice is little in his throat as he looks Derek in the eyes, touched.

“Y-yeah,” he answers, brows knitting together like Stiles asked the dumbest question of all time.

The vehicle slides to a halt.

“We're here.” Cora says, and her voice his hoarse and exhausted.

…

“Her pulse _stopped._ I swear to you. She was dead. I-- I didn't want it to be true, but she was.”

Sheriff Stilinski and Deaton sit quietly across from Scott and Allison. Scott feels a little better with Deaton in the room, but Allison has gone deathly quiet, head bowed, hair in her face. She hasn't said a word since the attack. Even when Isaac bursts through the door with the twins in tow, she hardly moves. She's completely shut down. Scott checks his phone. He texted Mr. Argent, but still hasn't gotten a response. He's starting to get concerned. But there's just too much happening for him to even fret. Scott's exhausted. He runs his hands through his hair.

“Scott, Allison, what--” Isaac starts.

“Lydia's dead,” Allison says, her voice low, almost difficult to hear.

Isaac looks like the wind's been knocked out of him. “What?”

“But her body disappeared!” Scott jumps in. “It's missing.”

“How is that even possible?” Isaac wheezes.

“Werewolves exist. Nemetons exist. Why the _fuck_ wouldn't it be possible?” Allison snaps, curling into herself, hiding her face behind her knees.

Isaac softens substantially, placing a shaky hand on her back, in the space between her shoulders. She doesn't respond to it. Scott can smell the tears she's hiding.

“Where is Stiles?” Deaton asks. He looks sallow, like he's been holding something back for too long.

“I, uh. I don't know,” Scott replies. Deaton immediately escorts Scott from the room, serious, concerned. “What?”

“Scott. Lydia was Stiles's tether to this world.”

Scott's heart hesitates in his chest. “Wh—”

“Her pulse stopped. You are absolutely certain. She was dead.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, it stopped.” Scott can feel the panic rising in his chest, increasing his thirst for blood, rage dwelling in him, darkening, making it hard to breathe. “Wh-what... what does that mean?”

“Scott... Stiles... without his tether... he won't be able to--”

“No!” Scott yelps like a kicked puppy. “No. I won't hear that. I won't! He's fine. He's... he's okay. He has to be. I can't lose him. I can't---”

“Scott, it _is_ possible to save him, but we need to get him another tether. We need to find him--”

Scott's phone buzzes. He presses it to his ear, holding on to a desperate need to cry his eyes out. “H-hello?”

“Scott! Thank God! Are you okay?” It's his mother. God, her voice is like the sound of angels.

“Y-yeah, Mom. I'm... I'm okay.” He feels like he's lying.

“You're never going to guess who just came in to my ER.” 

He can hear Stiles's voice in the background.

He lets out a breath and lets a few tears fall. One small relief.

“Mom. Mom, I'm on my way.”


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Thirteen**

“You're very lucky that you warmed up when you did. Hypothermia is a very serious thing, even for someone like you, Derek.”

“Yeah, fur-face jumped in after me,” Stiles replies quietly, and though he puts on his teasing face, there's still a sort of awe and fondness in his voice. “Glad Scott's influencing him to be honest. I doubt he would've done that a year ago.”

“Shut up, you know I would've,” Derek snips, still a little shivery and annoyed.

Stiles touches the jacket around his shoulders, suddenly aware that it actually belongs to Derek, then slides it off and offers it to him. Derek considers it for a moment with worried eyes before he eventually takes it and slides it over his shoulders.

“He's actually a big teddy bear, turns out,” Cora says, approaching with two plastic coffee cups. “Here. It's not the best in the world or anything but it's warm.”

Stiles clasps his hands around the cup, letting it warm him. He's sitting on the gurney next to Derek and they're both wearing clothes that don't belong to them. Stiles clothes swallow him; Derek's arms strain against his shirt. Stiles swallows thickly. He doesn't know what's up, but something feels different in him. He can't explain it.

“What- uh... what happened to Lydia?” he asks quietly, after a moment.

Derek's eyes flick to him and then away. Ms. McCall frowns.

“I don't know.”

“Stiles!”

Stiles's head jerks upward to see Scott rushing to him from the hallway. Within seconds his best friend's arms are around him. The way Scott squeezes him scares Stiles a little. There's a desperation and fear in him that Stiles only recognizes from accidents and funerals. It's the way his father held him the day his mother died.

“Scott, what happened?” he asks, his voice colder than he expects.

“I thought you-- I thought you were--” he stammers, all emotion and hurt and Stiles can't take it.

“Tell me!” he commands, grabbing Scott by the shoulders, even though he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to-

“She's-- dead.”

Stiles's entire world drops out from under him. He drops his coffee. It spills all over the floor.

“Wh-what?” he wheezes, blinking spots away from his eyes.

“Lydia... she... she got shot. She's dead.”

Stiles takes a shaky step backwards, sounds muffling in his ringing ears. “No, that's impossible--”

“Her body is missing--” Scott's muffled voice says.

Stiles tries to focus on breathing, because it's getting harder and harder to do so. His heart hammers in his ears. He stumbles away from Scott, trying to take it in but the words don't make sense. They jumble and blend together into one big _She's DEAD._

He's going to vomit. Stiles is pretty certain he's going to vomit.

“Stiles?” His name echoes around him, a flurry of different voices as he heads for the door. “Stiles!”

Derek gets to Stiles first, grabbing him by the arms. It sends shock waves through him. “Stiles?” His voice is rough. Stiles wobbles a little, flailing into the wall, gasping for air. He can't breathe. He's going to puke.

“ _STILES._ ” Derek gives him a rough shake, then pushes him to the floor. His voice takes on a more gentle edge. “Stiles, breathe. Breathe.”

Stiles has tears pricking in his eyes, but he searches Derek's face. Derek teaches him to breathe; he takes a big, slow breath, then lets it out, allowing Stiles to mimick.

“I-- I felt it,” Stiles wheezes after a few minutes. Derek is still crouched in front of him, coaching him through breathing. “I felt her die.”

Derek doesn't look away from Stiles but directs his question to Scott, standing just shy of them, staring. “What did Deaton say about all this?”

“Th-that's why I panicked. Without a tether to this world, the darkness should have swallowed Stiles up. I thought he was a goner.”

“That-- that doesn't make sense,” Stiles breathes. “I'm still here.”

“You almost weren't,” Derek argues. “You fell through the ice.”

“Yeah, and you--” Stiles freezes, realization playing on his features, “--jumped in after me. You pulled me back to the surface.”

Derek blinks a couple of times as the thought settles in, then carefully releases his hold on Stiles. He takes a long breath, almost like he's still coaching, then turns to Scott, poker-faced.

“You said her body is missing?”

“Yeah, the police couldn't find anything.”

“Dead bodies don't just get up and walk away,” Cora says, lingering in the doorway.

“They might if they're banshees,” Derek replies. “I wouldn't put anything past that girl.”

“Where's my dad?” Stiles asks, and he still feels sick to his stomach and weak in the knees. He's tired of all the grief in his heart.

“He's on his way. Are you okay?”

Derek and Scott help Stiles to his feet, and though he sways a little, he's all together okay. He glances at Derek. “Thanks.” Then to Scott: “Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay.” He rubs at his eyes, still teary. “So, what, you're saying Lydia might be alive?”

“I don't know.”

“Please start with the fact that her body is up walking around next time? Please.”

“We don't necessarily know that it is. I mean, someone could have taken it.”

“How long was it left alone?”

“Maybe a few minutes. Maybe.”

Derek runs a hand down his face, weary. “Okay, this might just be something we have to tackle in the morning. I don't have the energy to figure this out right now. Can we just... can we go home and sleep on it?”

“Derek?” Cora touches her brother's arm, gently. “Are _you_ okay?”

He bristles a little. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

Stiles falls asleep in his dad's squad car. After the events of the evening, his body doesn't even hold up. As soon as the heater hits him his energy tanks and he's gone.

…

Morrell hugs her arms close to her, the snow crunching underneath her boots. She's not a fan of this sudden winter. She moved to California to get away from cold weather. She's also not a fan of the supernatural aspects of it.

She ducks under a tree, breathing steam as she carries on, eyes searching. She's actually not even sure what she's looking for at this point, and that worries her. She's used to being the one with all the answers. This time she's not so sure. She pauses, catching signs of a struggle, long since finished. She touches the broken branches, smells the blood in the air.

“Alan,” she says slowly as he lumbers behind her a bit slower through the wood as he peruses in more detail.

“There was a fight here,” he states blandly, continuing through, following blood spots. He freezes at the edge of the trees, in a clearing. Morrell pushes forward, halts next to him, her stomach clenching.

“Deucalion...” she whispers, eying the crumpled body in the snow.

The man she once assisted (albeit a little hesitantly) no longer looks human, eviscerated and gray, lying in a smatter of bloody snow. He's been ripped to fucking shreds. At the same time, there is something stark about his injuries.

His eyes look like they've been burned from his skull, stark, black holes in his face.

“A werewolf?” she questions, knowing Deaton is also taking the details of his eyes.

“Maybe. Killing an alpha like Deucalion... I hope not.”

…

Click.

Allison drops the bullet on the table, fury in her eyes. “This is yours.”

Chris raises his eyebrows. He neither accepts or rejects her accusation, careful and stoic. “Allison... are you all right?”

“Cut the concerned parent crap, alright?” she hisses. Isaac bristles a little against the door frame, looking like he's ready to step in if need be. “I don't want to hear it. That bullet is _yours._ ”

“Allison--” Chris stands, worried. His daughter doesn't look well. She's haggard, skinny, wobbly on her feet. Her lips are chapped and flaking and her eyes are dark, deep set in her face, giving her head the appearance of a skull under a matted mess of hair.

“That _bullet_ killed my _best friend!_ ” she screams.

Her voice echoes through the empty house. _Friend, end, nd, nd_.

Then there's a sob. Chris reaches for her but she backs away, shaking her head, devastated. “How could you?! How could you?!”

_You, ou, ou._

“Allison--”

“This happened... this happened because you didn't trust me. You decided to take things into your own hands and people got _hurt._ ”

Chris swallows, a lump in his throat. “I'm trying to protect you-”

“Yeah, well, do me a favor and stop trying, because you suck at being a parent,” Allison spits.

“Allison, don't...” Isaac starts.

“No!” she holds up a hand to silence him, all power in her frail form. “It's the truth.” She stalks forward, a lioness, ready for prey. “Maybe you need to step up your _game_ , Dad. Because people around you keep dying. I've already lost my _mother_ and my _best friend_ , Dad! What's next?! What's next in your fucking plans for me?! Because the only thing I'm learning from your process is that I'd much rather be by myself than be your _fucking_ _daughter_!”

_Daughter, aughter, ter._

“She doesn't mean that,” Isaac starts, but she silences him again.

Chris is stunned silent. He wishes words would come.

By the time she's out the door, shouldering her bag and dragging Isaac behind her, he's still got nothing.

…

“What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?” Isaac breathes, “Allison.”

“He wants us to fight? Fine. I'll fight. I'll fight with everything I have.”

“ _Allison--_ ”

She turns to Isaac, fierce and furious. “You are either with me or you're getting in my way.”

“But where are you even going to go? Scott's? Sure as hell can't go to Lydi--”

Allison's jaw stiffens, eyes bright with rage. “Don't.”

“I'm sorry.” He reaches out for her, touches her shoulder, even though she tenses at it. “Allison. I just want you to be safe. You're not yourself right now. Come on, please talk to me.”

Allison's eyes weaken. “It's too late.”

“It's not. It's _not_ , Allison.”

“I should just accept it. I can't save anyone. I... I have to go.”

“Allison-”

She pulls away from him with a shuddery breath. “Don't. Follow me. I need to be alone.”

He grabs her by the arm. “No, you don't.”

“Let me go.”

“No.” He pulls her into his chest and envelops her in his arms. “I'm not gonna let you walk away from me right now. I'm not.”

“Please,” she whispers, but he doesn't know what she wants. He just holds her in the snow. She cries.

“I'm not gonna leave you. I don't care what you do. I'm not gonna leave you.”

A crow screeches and she jolts in his arms.

…

“So.”

“So what?” Derek tosses another log on the fire of the loft. It's like he can't get the chill out of his bones. He craves heat.

Cora crosses her arms over her chest. “What's going on with you and Stiles?”

“What are you talking about?” Derek's legitimately confused. He's also a little grouchy. It's been a long fucking night.

“You damn near died for that kid tonight. Are you aware of that?”

“Yes, you've made that abundantly clear. Multiple times. I wasn't going to let him drown, Cora.”

“I know that. God, I do. But you're being particularly protective of him. I know you relate to him. But you need to know that saving him isn't going to take away your grief.”

Derek huddles closer to the fire, grumpy and irritated. “I'm not going to stand idly by and let darkness take him. Like I said. I'm not going to let him drown.”

She sighs. “I don't want you to. I just... I want to know why. You save plenty of people. But this time it's different. It just is.”

“Well I don't know exactly how.”

“I don't want you to lose yourself. Not for anyone.”

Derek stares into the fire. “I don't think I'm losing anything.”

She smiles a little. “Maybe you aren't. Maybe you're finding something instead. Just know the difference.”

Derek makes a face at her, not really sure what she means. “Okay then.”

…

“What the hell did you _do?!_ ”

Valerie is taken aback by Chris's tone, even though she is expecting it. After all, she's well aware that the events from the evening before (the sun is rising now – she supposes that counts as morning) were bound to get back to him. Jason is lucky to be alive, holed away in a hospital bed. He's definitely out of commission. She's a man down, and, judging by Chris's face, so is he.

“You shot an innocent girl!” He answers for her before she has the chance to respond.

“I didn't shoot her, Chris,” Valerie says, trying to remain calm. “I never fired.”

Chris holds up a bullet casing. “These only come from my guns.”

“Then maybe you shot her,” Valerie snips, eyes narrowing. “I didn't.”

Chris looks like he wants to slap her, but he doesn't. “My daughter blames me for this, you know. She took off into the night and now _I can't find her._ ”

“She damn near killed one of mine. Again! Maybe my kids aren't the ones who need reining in, Argent. She certainly likes to jump to conclusions like you do.”

“My daughter is not okay right now, Valerie, and I need to find her. But she won't even want to be found until I can get this figured out. Please, Valerie. Tell me the truth.” The desperation in his voice softens Valerie.

“I am. I didn't shoot Lydia Martin.” She gets to her feet and grabs Chris by both sides of his face, forcing him to look her in the eyes. She's suddenly overcome with emotion, eyes welling. “I swear to God I didn't _shoot_ her. I didn't shoot her, Chris.”

“Then who did?” His voice isn't accusatory, though the question is. “One of yours?”

“They didn't have guns.”

“That doesn't make sense.”

“I know, but you have to believe me. I didn't do it.” Her jaw hurts as she clenches it, holding back the tears. “Too many innocent lives are destroyed every day. I certainly don't plan on being responsible for taking another. It has to be a set up, Chris. It has to be.”

She realizes that she hasn't let go of his face, thumbs brushing against the stubble on his cheek. He looks exhausted and terrified. His eyes lack the spark they had in his youth. She's actually amazed at how unrecognizable he is in that moment. It's like his entire world has imploded. All she wants to do is make it better. If she can make him better, something might work. Something might improve.

The grief is heavy on him, like a curtain, weighing him into the ground, slumping his shoulders.

“God,” she whispers, encircling his neck with her arms and pulling him close. She breathes him in slowly, eyes closed. “I'm so sorry, Chris. I'm so sorry for everything that's happened. Kate, Victoria, Allison, everything.”

He stands there, lets her hug him, still, quiet, like the names are washing over him in slow succession. The years between them feel like centuries now. She misses chasing after him with the wind in her hair and a battlecry on her lips. She misses slipping away from the high school to enjoy his company. She misses being young. She doesn't miss being reckless.

“I don't know how it happened,” he murmurs. He takes a shaky breath. “I-- I need her back.”

_Her_ could be Allison. _Her_ could be Victoria.

All Valerie can offer is herself. His arms slide around her waist. He buries his face in her neck.

They stand, wrapped around each other, in silence.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!!

**Chapter Fourteen**

The snow has stopped. For now. Stiles is more paranoid about it than he wants to readily admit. He likes to think that it's the paranoia that makes him want to stay in the warm confines of his bed, instead of getting up and going to school – which is back in session. He's pretty sure he's just exhausted from all the recent events, though. It's been a crazy week. A crazy month. A crazy couple of years, actually. Which tends to be the case when one's best friend is a werewolf, after all.

Eventually, he forces himself out of bed and into some warm clothes, shouldering his bookbag with a grimace and a groan. He isn't looking forward to walking to school at all.

Which is why when he sees Derek's SUV by the curb, all steamed up and warm, he kind of wants to cry from sheer joy. He flops into the passenger seat without a word, rubbing his hands together and enjoying the heat spewing from the vents.

“Good morning to you too,” Derek sasses, raising his eyebrows, unimpressed.

Stiles offers him a smile in return, sheepish. “Sorry. I got a little excited.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Your dad asked me to drive you, by the way. I guess he doesn't trust you hoofing it by yourself around town.”

“Normally I'd be offended, but really, who _would_? This is a scary place nowadays.” He glances at the plastic coffee cups sitting in the cup holders. “Did he also ask you to bring me coffee?”

“No. And it's tea.”

Stiles snorts. “You are obsessed with this tea thing.” He sips at it anyway. It's slightly bitter, but it warms him all the way down. “What is this? This isn't the same as the last one you ordered me.”

“It's black tea with a little sugar. It'll wake you up.”

Stiles grins into it. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

“No really.” Stiles sighs heavily as Derek reaches to put the vehicle in drive. “ _Thanks._ For... for a lot of stuff.”

Derek isn't good at taking gratitude. He shrugs a shoulder and keeps driving. “It's not a big deal.”

“It kind of is.”

There's a long moment of silence. Stiles watches the lines on the road with less than mild interest. It's actually been a couple of days since everything happened, and he feels, oddly enough, more _stable_. There's still darkness in his heart, but he doesn't feel like he's drowning in it.

At the same time, Allison is missing. He's very scared of that. Derek and Isaac and Scott searched high and low for her, but it was like she never existed. She's a hunter. She knows how to cover her tracks. Stiles hopes she comes back soon. He's never seen Isaac and Scott so overwhelmed. Not to mention the fact that Stiles is pretty certain he can't handle anymore death.

His eyes tear up at the thought of Lydia. He swallows.

“It stopped snowing.”

“Yeah, I know,” Derek says, and the gruffness in his voice hints that he's a little wary of the lack of snow as well. “I wonder why.”

“Me too.” He reaches for his tea at the same time Derek does and their knuckles brush at the cup holder. Stiles freezes for a moment, but isn't sure why.

He catches himself staring, then averts his eyes back to the road, knocking back a good gulp of tea that scalds his tongue. Derek bristles a little, grabbing the wheel, looking a little embarrassed. Before Stiles can mention it, Derek's eyebrows furrow and he slows the car.

“What the fuck is that?”

Stiles tears his eyes from Derek's puzzled profile to turn to the road.

He blinks.

Crows have landed in the road, a seething mass of black feathery creatures, just milling about in the street and trees. It could be normal if there weren't _so many of them_.

“That is like... the entire crow population,” Stiles marvels.

Derek's jaw tightens. “They reek of blood. They're covered in it.”

Stiles gasps, because suddenly, he can see it. He can see the smear of blood all over. The entire world is washed red in it. His mouth tastes metallic and his nose burns at the smell.

He bails out of the car and starts running.

Derek's right behind him as Stiles barrels into the center of the feathery mass, sliding on the leftover snow on the ground. All the crows scatter, screeching around him, dropping feathers everywhere. In the air he hears a whisper, a familiar voice.

“ _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”_

“Lydia?” Stiles murmurs.

Derek grabs Stiles by the arm and he jolts.

The birds are gone. The feathers remain.

“I... I heard her. I _heard_ her.” Stiles takes a breath and it's cold in his lungs.

“I did too,” Derek says, eyeing the area with suspicion. He doesn't let go of Stiles, even when he leads him back to the car.

“You're gonna be late for school.”

Stiles stares at Derek's hand wrapped around his wrist, strong, but gentle. “But-- I think she's trying to tell me something. She's trying to communicate with us.”

“With these birds? Why?”

“I-- I don't know.” Stiles keeps looking at Derek's hand. He can't take his eyes off of it. It's so warm. “I don't know. I need to... I need to do some research, I guess. Maybe I can find a way to talk to her.”

“Don't chase her ghost, Stiles. Chasing ghosts has not worked well for you in the past.”

“It doesn't work well for _anyone_. That doesn't mean we don't do it.”

Derek lets go, lips thinning, eyes intense. “Stiles--”

“I'm okay.” He doesn't know why he clarifies. “I'm okay. Come on. Let's go.”

He is late to school. By the time Derek pulls around the back parking lot, everyone is nestled in their classrooms and the grounds are empty and cold. There are still parts of the school that are taped off, damaged and awaiting repair. He grimaces at the destruction. He doesn't even realize Derek's left the vehicle until he opens Stiles's door.

“Go to school, Stiles.”

Stiles whines for good measure even though he's not feeling particularly playful. He's spooked after the whole crow-thing. “Finnnne. Hardass.”

“Shut up.”

Stiles pauses in his steps, then turns and throws himself into Derek's chest, wrapping his arms around him. The guy saved his life. He feels like he _has_ to do it. Besides, Stiles has always believed that if Derek Hale has needed anything in his life, it's a hug.

He's a little surprised that Derek hugs back.

Then he quietly says into Stiles's hairline, “Go to school, Stiles.”

Stiles is slow to let go. His heart beats in his ears.

He knows Derek hears it, so he makes his escape.

He catches sight of his face in a glass display case in the school's foyer. He's blushing. He's actually-- is he...

“Shit.”

…

“People are going to be looking for you.”

“People are going to be looking for you too.”

Allison is draped over a beat up old sofa, exhausted and irritable and unmoving. Artie is poking at an ember in the fireplace, coaxing it back into flame. The house around them would be homey if it wasn't for the claw marks and destruction. When the fire is sufficiently warm, he crawls into an armchair and folds his limbs, watching her with large, owl-like eyes.

“How did you find out about me?”

“I figured it out.” She doesn't offer further explanation. “So how do you do it? How do you become the berserker?”

“I, uhh... I don't know. It sort of just happens. I was experimented on. This is apparently the result.” He gestures to the mess around him. He pauses, eyeing her with a look that she can't read. “I'm glad you came here.”

“So you can't control when you become the beast,” Allison says, ignoring his comment. “Do you even know when it happens?”

“I know it's activated when I get aggravated in some way. Kind of like the Incredible Hulk, I guess. All I know is that I usually wake up alone in some scary place.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“Gone. Dead. I try to stay away from people so it doesn't happen again.”

“You seem to seek people out in your beast state. Maybe your idea isn't working.”

Artie bristles a little, huddling into himself. “Maybe not. But those hunters have been chasing me. They pushed me to do these things. They find me in these public places.”

“What about here? Have they ever found you here?”

“N-no.” Artie swallows. “But I live in a constant state of fear of them. I mean. It doesn't take much to set me off.”

“So why here? Why aren't you running? You know the hunters are here and yet you show up at school and wait for them? Seems pretty stupid.” Allison's voice is cold.

“I found power here. I'm getting stronger. If I can get stronger, I can control it. Maybe I can finally get a handle on myself. I can use my abilities for good.”

“So you came for the Nemeton.”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, I could feel it calling me here.”

“Did you find it?”

“What?”

“Did you find it.”

“N-no. I haven't.”

“If I were you, I wouldn't seek it out. It's not going to give you the power you need. Not right now.”

“Is that why you came here? To tell me to stay out of your woods?” Artie looks a little amused at the idea. “Because that's not gonna happen.”

Allison scowls. Her eyes drift listlessly to one of the marred walls. “I wouldn't recommend you cross me, Arthur.”

He's confused at this. It's a huge shift for her and he's not used to it. “Allison?”

She drifts off into a strange sleep. She looks like a corpse, like dead weight on the couch. He actually slides off his chair and checks to see if she's breathing.

She is. Barely.

…

“Where the hell have you been?” Scott whispers as Stiles slides into his desk. Coach is still going off about him being late, but eventually uses it to launch into another lecture about Economics. He's actually pretty fucking good at teaching Economics, Stiles hates to admit.

“I got a little caught up,” Stiles offers, eyes playing on Danny.

Danny looks rough. It's the first time Stiles has seen him since Lydia's disappearance – he refuses to believe she's anywhere near dead. Sometimes in all the craziness, Stiles forgets that the supernatural effects more than just his immediate circle. Death effects everyone around. He's said it before, and he still means it. Ethan is holding Danny's hand, fingers laced quietly on the desktop, but Danny's not with it. His eyes trail listlessly on the wall. He's hunched over and weary and, well, he just looks _sad._

“Are you okay?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Stiles says absently. “I uh. I think I might have... heard Lydia.”

“What?”

Ethan perks from across the room. Stiles knows he's listening. He see's Ethan's thumb brush over Danny's knuckles.

“You heard her?”

“Yeah. But... I don't know. These crows just, like, surrounded Derek's car and when I went to them, I could hear her. They were covered in blood, Scott.”

Scott knits his eyebrows together, his face shifting into that typical expression of concern that puts wrinkles in his forehead and tension in his jaw. It's an expression Stiles is too used to seeing. “Blood.”

“Yeah. Blood.”

“Did you see anything else?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”

“What about Derek?”

“He didn't say he did--”

Isaac turns around in his desk for the first time since Stiles entered, eyebrow raised. “Why were you with Derek?”

Stiles blinks. “He, uh-- He drove me to school.”

“Why?”

“Because it's fucking cold outside?” Stiles snips. “Do you have to interrogate me on this? It's nothing.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “There are more important things, you know.”

Isaac's eyes trail to Allison's empty desk. He withers. “Yeah. I know.”

“Have you heard from her?” Scott asks, and his voice is low and a bit raw.

Isaac shakes his head. “No. Have you?”

Scott shakes his head. “Not a word.”

By the time class lets out, Stiles is pretty fucking down. It's hard not to be with the world in it's current state. When he shuffles out of the room, Ethan is waiting for him.

“You said you heard her.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I don't know.”

“Stiles, my brother is a mess. Danny's even worse. We have to find her.”

“Yeah, well, Allison's missing too. And there's a big giant bear thing trying to kill us. Oh. And hunters. Those too. We're pretty screwed at this point.” Stiles realizes how bitter that sounds and recants. “I want to find her too. Believe me I do. But... I don't know, Ethan. I think. I think she'll find us first. I think she's trying to find us.”

Ethan frowns. “I'm not... we're not part of Scott's pack. But we _are_ willing to help. We want to help. Don't keep us out of the loop.”

Stiles nods. “I'll, uh, I'll try my best. I guess.”

His phone buzzes. It's a text from Derek.

_Talk. Now._

…

“You made such a big deal out of making sure I wasn't late to school and now you have me cutting class and meeting you under the bleachers. Seems a little shady, don't you think?” Stiles jokes, ducking under the metal benches. “You wanna make out or something?”

Derek isn't in the mood, but Stiles sees a slight tinge of red in Derek's ears at the comment. “Stiles.”

“What?” Stiles frowns, because Derek looks serious. Serious and _scared_. “Derek, what?”

“I just talked to Cora. I... I don't know how she found out but-- Deucalion--”

“Not him again--”

“He's _dead_.”

“What?”

“He's dead, Stiles. He was murdered. Apparently eviscerated.”

Stiles's heart plummets into his stomach as he puts it together. “...Like. Like he was mauled... by a werewolf.”

“Sort of. There are also clues that he was attacked in other ways. His eyes were burned out of his skull. Not ripped. Burned. By magic or something.”

“You think we're dealing with a team then.”

“I don't know. I don't know.”

“Why...” Stiles pauses. “Why did you decide to tell me this? Why me and not Scott?”

“Because--” Derek starts, but doesn't seem to know how to finish. He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I just... I thought you might be in trouble. I don't know why. I just--”

“Scott has a lot on him. But we have to tell him. I'm not gonna let him get blindsided by it.” He breathes, feeling like he's on edge. His heart is beating rapidly, pulsing in his neck. “God-- Deucalion? Who the fuck killed him? Who--”

“Do you think Jennifer is still alive?” Derek sounds like he's ripping apart on the inside at the thought. “Do you think she teamed up with someone to kill Deucalion?”

“N-no. No. That's not possible.” Stiles's fingers twitch as he looks at Derek. “She's gone.”

“Well, whatever happened, we've probably got a strong alpha on our hands. On top of _everything else._ ”

Derek's shoulders are so tense that they're pushing toward his ears. He's on the verge of absolute collapse. “This... with all of this. Someone's going to _die_ , Stiles. I can't deal with any more death right now. I had to make sure you—”

Stiles finally steps forward and embraces him, leaning into Derek's shoulder. “No one's going to die. We're going to fight. We're going to win.”

It's the most positive thing he's said in a long time. And it's probably a lie.

But he does like where he's standing. That's not a lie. He closes his eyes.

For a moment, he's back in that hospital room with Derek, water spilling through the windows and the doors, drowning them. But then he remembers, vaguely, that they broke the surface of the wave. They _survived_.

Hell, they've survived this long. Maybe he's not lying.

Stiles snorts against his will. “I _have_ been knocking on death's door a lot. I guess that's why you were worried about me, hm?”

Derek presses his cheek against Stiles's hairline, clinging to him. “Yeah,” he says, and Stiles knows he's lying. “Yeah, that's why.”


	16. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Fifteen**

Derek shifts, sniffing at the air. He can't smell anything. That's how he knows he's dreaming.

He's deep in the woods. He can hear the sounds of a struggle all around him, but he cannot focus his ears on where. He can hear screaming, the explosion of claws against bark, and gunshots. He takes a step.

A crow screeches, high pitched and overpowering. He stumbles as his ears ring, searching the trees for the offense, but he sees nothing. When he looks up, he sees her.

Lydia stands, her back to him, red hair floating gently down her back. Her skin is the color of milk in the moonlight, dotted with a random freckle here and there. Her hair is so bright against the dark backdrop, fiery, burning into Derek's retinas.

“Lydia--” he says but his voice doesn't sound like his own.

When she turns to face him, her eyes are black. Derek feels fear douse him like ice water, and then she's screaming in his face and the entire world is falling apart at the seams.

But the worst part is that he feels like his blood is burning out of his skin.

“Derek! _DEREK!_ ”

Derek gasps, shooting up in his bed, nearly knocking heads with his sister. He takes a second to find oxygen before he finally looks at her.

“What the hell was that all about?” she asks, alarmed, claws still readied from her adrenaline.

“It... it was a nightmare. A nightmare...” Derek pauses. “I think.”

“You think?”

Derek swings his legs off the bed and crosses the loft with no real destination in mind. He just needs to get on his feet to remember they're still working. “I saw... I saw Lydia. And she was screaming.... She wasn't herself. Not completely. I-- I felt it in my bones.” He shudders a little against his will.

“Do you think maybe she was trying to tell you something?”

Derek runs his hands through his hair, trying to play it over in his mind, but he's too spooked to make any sense of it. “I don't... I don't know what.”

“Are you okay?” Cora breathes after a second, finally retracting her claws and reaching for her brother's arm.

“Y-yeah. Why?”

“Because you're bleeding.” Cora pulls her hand away from Derek's wrist, her fingertips stained.

Derek looks down. He is bleeding from nonexistent wounds. Blood traces up his arms in the lines of his veins, like he is cursed by his own blood. He swallows and tastes copper.

“We're going to Deaton,” Cora says with finality, grabbing a towel from the kitchen and pushing it to Derek's skin. But there's no wound to put pressure on. It's just blood.

He can still picture Lydia's face in his mind, damn near demonic and so, so angry.

…

“Scott, it's late. It's cold. She's not out here.”

“We've got to do something, Isaac. I can't just wait around for things to happen. Deucalion's dead. Stiles said so. I'm not gonna wait around for another person to die. I've got to fight.”

“You're not gonna be able to fight anything if you keep staying up every night looking for Allison.”

Scott whirls on Isaac, eyes flashing red. “What, you don't _want_ to find her?”

“You know I want to find her more than anything,” Isaac argues, eyes flickering back, bright amber. “Don't even try to accuse me of not wanting her to be back here right now! But you _know her._ If she doesn't want to be found, she won't. I don't know. She's pissed. Maybe she's laying low and planning her next move.”

Scott grimaces, turning away and continuing his search. “You don't get it--”

“Oh? What don't I get, Scott? Hm? This darkness thing you guys are dealing with? Believe me, I _get it._ I've had you and Allison both at my throat because of it. I've laid awake worrying about you and Allison and Stiles every night because of it. I've watched the three of you shift and change as the Nemeton dies and you don't think I _get it?!”_

“It's getting _WORSE!_ ” Scott suddenly screams, silencing Isaac. Then, with a shuddering breath, he adds, “I'm... I'm scared that if it's getting worse for me... it's getting worse for her too.... I don't... I don't know.”

Scott looks cold. And small. But Isaac knows better than to consider him nonthreatening. He wavers a little in his spot, staring Scott down.

“...How bad?”

Scott shakes his head, frustrated. “I... I don't--- I keep having these _dreams._ I just... I know I'm gonna kill someone, Isaac. I feel all this rage... I can't control it. When I'm at work, around Deaton, it helps a little, but not enough. In class I look at those two hunters and our teacher and I want to kill them for what they did to Lydia. I have these visions of ripping them apart, even the one in the hospital, and spilling their blood on the ground. I can smell it, and taste it, and...” Scott breathes, almost like it arouses him to envision the violence. It sends chills down Isaac's spine. “That's why I don't sleep. That's why I search. It's better this way.”

“Have you talked to Stiles about this?”

“I'm not worrying Stiles with this. It doesn't matter anyway. You don't care. He doesn't care. No one cares.” There's a venom in Scott's voice that's hard to miss.

“Scott.... You know that's not true.”

“No, shut up!” Scott yells. “No! Because you and Allison are happy without me and Stiles isn't around anymore and everyone is just going to go away. There's nothing I can do. I'm a terrible alpha. Everyone's going to die. Disappear. And it'll be all my fault.”

“That's not true, Scott. We're not going to leave you.”

“Pff,” Scott scoffs. “Easy to say.”

He starts trudging off into the trees. Isaac isn't sure he should go after him or not. Scott's not exactly in an emotional state that could bode well for Isaac's physical well being. At the same time, he doesn't want to leave Scott alone. Allison is already missing. To have his alpha disappear would not be a good thing.

“Scott, come back,” Isaac begs from his spot, unsure of what to do. “Scott.” He starts following.

But he keeps his distance.

He just hopes they find something.

…

“He's out of ICU, if it matters to you,” Valerie says.

Chris is sitting at his kitchen table. He hasn't left his apartment since they spoke last. He rolls the bullet over his fingers. His beard is growing thick and there are bags under his eyes.

“I keep waiting for her to come back,” he says softly. “But she won't.”

“She will.”

He shakes his head. “I know her. She's like her mother. She's strong. She's strong and stubborn and she has every right to hate me.”

“Chris--”

“I can't help you, Valerie. I've already done a terrible thing. I know you said you didn't kill Lydia, but... but this isn't going to work. I can't put you ahead of my family. I can't put your cause ahead of my daughter.”

“Even if it puts her in danger?”

Chris glares. “Then it'll be my job to protect her. Not yours.”

“Chris, let me help _you_ , at least--”

“I don't--”

“Chris, don't do this by yourself. Don't do this _to yourself._ ” She drops to her knees, grabs him by the face, _begs_ him. “Please. Let me help you find her.”

“What if it's too late-”

“It isn't. It's not too late. It's not too late, Chris. It's not.”

He looks so lost. So alone. But he fearlessly looks her in the eyes, all the pain and desperation so clear there, an open book to his inner destruction.

His kiss tastes different than it did years ago.

…

“When were you going to tell us that Deucalion was dead?” Cora can't help herself. She's scathing as Deaton slides a rag over Derek's arm, wiping away blood. It just percolates back to the surface of his skin. Derek scrunches his nose at it, confused. It doesn't hurt but it's freaky enough.

“We didn't want to worry you with it until we knew what took place--”

“That's bull.”

“Cora,” Derek tries to scold even though she's absolutely right. Still. Deaton is up before dawn to take care of him. Yelling at him probably wouldn't help his situation much.

Deaton grimaces like he knows Cora is right, continuing to tend to Derek. “When did this start happening?”

“Tonight. After I woke up from the dream.”

“Lydia is obviously trying to tell you something. What, I'm not sure.”

“But why me?” That's the most insane part about it that Derek doesn't understand. He and Lydia have never exactly gotten along, nor have they spent any extended amount of time together. He's clueless.

“The only thing I can think of is that she has connected to you through Stiles. The day you saved Stiles from falling through the ice, you kept him tethered to the earth, just like she did. So in a way, you're both tethered to Stiles.”

Cora crosses her arms across her chest. “So why not contact Stiles instead of Derek? Is she shut off from him?”

“No,” Derek answers first. “Stiles has been seeing her too. Just not like this.”

Cora raises an eyebrow, curious, as if to ask _And how exactly would you know that, brother dear?_ Derek ignores the look. Deaton either chooses to do the same or doesn't catch it.

“It could be about what she's trying to tell you. Something about your blood, Derek.”

Derek swallows thickly. “ _Great._ ”

“It has stopped, it seems...” Deaton pulls the rag away. The blood is no longer surfacing on Derek's arms, but the skin is stained, small lines drawn across the flesh. “Is there anything about the dream that stood out to you, Derek?”

Derek frowns. “Everything did. She was screeching at me and I felt like my skin was on fire. I...” Derek pauses. “I felt like I had wronged her... and I deserved to be punished for it. But I don't know why.”

“Maybe you should ask _Stiles_ ,” Cora says, almost amused but still completely serious.

Maybe he should. Derek eyes her. He can sense that she's suggesting something and he doesn't appreciate it. He's well aware of what's bubbling under his surface when it comes to Stiles, well fucking aware of why he's gotten so protective of him as of late, but he doesn't appreciate her calling him out on it. The less he thinks about it, the less obvious it seems.

“Maybe I _should_ ,” Derek spits back, a little petulantly. He's reluctant to admit that he gets a little childish around Cora at times, something he never thought would redevelop until they were out on the road, just the two of them. Then, quietly, he adds: “Maybe he _would_ know. He knew... he _knows_ Lydia better than any of us.”

“Meanwhile,” Cora brings the topic back to hand, now that Derek is okay for the most part. “About Deucalion. Were you going to sweep that under the rug? There could be an alpha out there ready to kill us!”

“I don't know if Deucalion was necessarily killed by a werewolf. There were many marks on him that show otherwise.”

“And there are marks on him that show that he was. I did my digging.”

Deaton glares. “You stuck your claws into my sister's neck and saw her memories.”

Derek turns to his sister, aghast at her actions. She is not dismayed.

“I did what I had to do. She knew something, and when she wouldn't tell me I found out for myself. I didn't hurt her.”

“You could have killed her,” Derek argues. “You're not trained in that--”

“She's fine,” Cora dismisses. “What happened?”

Deaton sighs. “We don't know. I just told you what we know. It looks almost like he was struck by two different people, but the signs of struggle only lead to one.”

“No one but a werewolf would have a reason to kill Deucalion. The only motivation would be to become an alpha. To take his power. The only other person out to kill Deucalion was Jen-- the Darach. And she's dead.... right?”

Silence. Derek grimaces; tries again. “Right?”

…

Stiles snorts awake at the sound of his window sliding open, the freezing air making him seek refuge in his blankets. “Who—whaaa?”

“Hi,” Derek greets in a low voice, shutting the window behind him.

Stiles tries to still the weird excitement in him at the sound as he sits up, sheets and blanket draping around his waist. “Uhh, hey there,” he greets awkwardly. “It's uh. It's late.”

“Sorry. I was going to wait til morning--”

“I mean, it's cool. I rarely sleep nowadays anyway.” Stiles peers at Derek in the darkness, the snow on the shoulders of his jacket, the way he's hunched forward in the glow of the streetlight from outside. “Are you... are you okay?”

“I think so,” Derek answers vaguely, which only piques Stiles's curiosity.

“Um... here.” He climbs out of bed, nearly tripping on his pajama bottoms but dragging his comforter with him, and he slides it around Derek quietly. “Sit down.”

“Lydia came to me in a dream,” Derek says, not moving. They end up standing by the window, wrapped in that blanket, basically breathing each others air. Stiles's bewilderment wears through the warmth. Derek continues: “I woke up bleeding. She was screaming at me, Stiles. I don't know what she was trying to say.”

“Bleeding?! Are you--”

“I'm fine. I'm just trying to... to figure out...” Derek trails off, distracted.

Stiles fingertips rest in the crooks of Derek's elbow, warm on the wrinkled leather. “Was she angry?” Stiles asks vaguely.

“Y-yeah. I think so.”

Derek slides his hands up Stiles's arms, up to the line of his t-shirt sleeves, raising the flesh with his cold, calloused fingers. Stiles swallows. Derek hears it; tries to ignore it.

“Her eyes were black. She screeched. Like a crow. My blood was on fire.”

“On fire...” Stiles echoes, almost like he knows that Derek's feeling the same way in that moment – albeit for completely different reasons.

“I shouldn't have come here,” Derek relents. “I shouldn't have expected you to know anything-- I mean, why would you?”

Stiles slides his arms around Derek's waist and sighs into him. There's a long moment of silence, then Derek pulls the blanket tighter around the two of them, standing there in the warmth of it.

“I'm glad you're here,” Stiles says, voice muffled against Derek's shoulder.

Derek almost chuckles. “Me too.”

“We'll figure it out,” Stiles says, rearing back with a grin. “No worries. She screeched like a crow? She's been using the crows to talk to us. So maybe its not an anger thing.”

“You're being awfully positive about all this.”

“Someone has to be.” Stiles makes to move, but they're wrapped up tight. Derek doesn't release him.

Stiles goes a little red in the face. “What the hell is going on?”

“What?” Derek wants to ask the same thing, but it's the only thing he can manage.

“This... this thing... what is this?”

“I don't know.” Derek is being honest. He does know one thing though. He's much happier where he is standing in this moment. It's been a while. 

He needs to be careful.

Stiles lets go slowly. Derek does too, folding the comforter around Stiles's shoulders and stepping away.

“I'm sorry,” he says, uncertain, turning for the window.

“Wait.” Stiles grabs Derek's hand before he can even open the window. When he pulls Derek back, it's with a force he doesn't expect. 

Derek stumbles forward into Stiles and he knows exactly what is going to happen before it does. When their lips smash together, it's fervent and fast and light explodes behind Derek's eyes. Then, the whole world slows, and he takes in the warm soft lips between his own, listens for the slow inhale before mouths open and tongues touch. It's timid at first, questioning, but only for a few moments. Stiles's hands play on Derek's shoulders, and then they're stumbling backwards, toppling onto the bed, the blanket sprawled beneath the boy's lanky form. When they break apart, they lay there, breathing each others air, hot against their lips.

Stiles lets out a long breath.

“Okay then.”


	17. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Sixteen**

Allison wakes up with a start, feeling a cold hand on her shoulder. When she twists to see the culprit, there's no one there.

She doesn't know how long she's been out. Her stomach is growling and she feels lightheaded. She's pretty certain it's been a while. She glances around Artie's house warily. It's so quiet. She wonders where the kid got off to. She hops off the couch, and shivers as her feet touch softly on the icy chill of the floor. It creaks as she walks.

When she passes a mirror, she sees Kate in her peripheral. She's learned to ignore it, even though it makes her heart pound and her veins jump. Everything in her is telling her to go back to her seat, or, even better, to go running and screaming out of the house. But she doesn't trust it. She doesn't trust anything anymore. 

She creeps up the stairs, dead silent and holding her breath as she rounds the corner, seeking out her housemate. Her ears pick up on his breathing as she approaches his bedroom door (or what she assumes is his bedroom door at least).

She pushes it open without knocking.

What she sees is not what she expects.

…

Stiles doesn't want to talk about it. Derek doesn't want to talk about it. It is pretty fucking clear that neither of them want to talk about it. Not right now.

Except it's kind of something that needs to be discussed before any other conversation can take place. So they are stuck, lying next to each other on Stiles's bed in silence, breathing the same air, staring at each other in a mixture of shock and awe.

“We uh. We don't have to talk about it,” Stiles tries. But they really need to talk about it. There isn't really any other option.

Well. There's one.

Stiles kisses Derek again, harder, hands on the strong, stubbled line of his jaw. Derek doesn't protest at all, sighing into Stiles's mouth and languidly sliding his tongue between his lips. He is careful with it, not pushy, almost like he's worried about making a mistake – which is stupid, because Stiles has no idea what he's doing while Derek's had a bit more experience in the field. At the same time, Stiles can't help but think _fuck it_ and swings a leg over Derek until he's on top of him, sliding into his lap and grinding down with a smirk.

Derek grunts, large hands falling to Stiles's waist, holding still for just a moment, still cautious. There's something in Stiles that takes it as a challenge. He slides his lips along Derek's jaw, down to the pulsing vein in his neck; nibbles there, gently, and _listens._ He wants to hear Derek breathe. Derek cranes his neck, dragging his teeth over Stiles's neck, with much more prowess, and it makes his body quiver and his breath hitch in his throat. Derek's grip tightens at the sound, and he cants his hips upwards against Stiles, and Stiles groans low in his throat, the sound of himself surprising him. He's never heard himself like this before.

He murmurs, fingers trembling as they caress the frame of Derek's face, grasping andscratching up into his scalp, tugging the soft dark hair around his ears. Derek chuckles a little against his neck, the stretch of his lips sending shivers down Stiles's spine. Hot hands slide up under Stiles's t-shirt, glide over his shoulder blades. There's a small scratch of claws against his skin there.

Stiles dives back in for another kiss, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck and pulling him even closer. Before he knows it they're panting into each other's mouths, grinding and gasping as Stiles tugs Derek's shirt up and off.

Stiles struggles to gain control of himself, to no avail. He's too green at this. Even sitting on top of Derek, he's still completely slack to his will, because it just feels _so good._ He sucks Derek's bottom lip, pushes down against him. Derek moans, head falling back, exposing his throat to Stiles. _God_. Stiles licks his lips and swallows, leans forward to press his mouth against the long line of his neck, suddenly timid and unsure.

Maybe they should talk about it.

Derek rolls them over and Stiles lands on his side, finally pulling away from kissing him, breathing like he's just run a marathon.

“I have no idea what I'm doing,” Stiles admits in a whisper.

“I do,” Derek groans, diving in for another kiss.

Then the window shatters.

…

“What the hell are you doing?!” Allison half-yells, falling back against the doorframe.

Artie has a needle in his arm and eyes full of rage. “You!”

Allison backs out of the room, horrified as the boy in front of her begins to transform. “You... this was no accident. You've been doing this to yourself!”

He shoves her into the wall, hands larger than she remembers, growing hairier. He smirks at her, malicious, ready for her.

“Don't you get it, Argent? What I have right now? It's real power. Are you going to act like that's not something you've always wanted?”

Allison trembles in his grip. “You wanted me to find you.” His claws dig into her skin, drawing blood. He sighs at the smell of it, intoxicated by it. He runs his tongue over the wounds, tasting it, making her cringe. “Stop it,” she commands in a low voice.

She makes a move to fight him, but he continues his transformation, too strong for her to fight off bare-handed, knocking her to the floor. She rolls away from his next blow and kicks his legs out from under him. When he topples to the floor, she takes off running, but her only destination can be his bedroom. When she slams the door shut, she's face to face with all his wrongdoings. His walls are plastered with scientific formulas and so, so many photos. She can see pictures of him with Jason and Eve and Kyle. Ms. Sloan. They're all marked in black and red ink, distorted. There are programs from funerals. Mr. and Mrs. Bernard. Closed casket. Newspaper articles about the attack that killed them.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, taking it all in to the point where it almost overwhelms her, makes her head spin. She sees the syringes on the table, his own concoction, his way of fighting it.

“Power,” Kate says. Allison jumps, turning to see her aunt standing in the room.

“No,” she says.

“You don't have long.”

The door crackles as Artie begins to rip it from its hinges. Allison searches for a weapon. _Anything._

“What are you going to do?” Kate antagonizes. “Sit there? Helpless? I like to think I taught you better than that.”

“You didn't teach me anything,” Allison tries to argue.

“I taught you _everything!_ ” Kate hisses.

Allison stares down at her hand, not knowing when she picked up the syringe.

“Life or death, Allison. Make a decision.”

“Why can't you just leave?”she murmurs.

“ _DECIDE!”_

…

Cora drops her bag by the door, exhausted. It's been a hell of a night. Where Derek got off to, she has no idea, but she can guess. Her brother, being as cold as he is at times, still wears his heart on his sleeve. It's partly why it gets broken so often. But then, Stiles is a good guy. Maybe this one will work. She's not involved. At the same time, there are more important things going on, and she's not quite sure running into a whirlwind romance is a great idea. She can hear movement in the kitchen and she rolls her eyes. Maybe he did come home after all.

“Derek, it's like three in the morning. You cannot possibly have the munchies right now.”

She steps on a black feather on the floor, raising her eyebrows as she lifts it up in front of her face.

“Hello, Cora.”

Cora nearly jumps out of her skin. “Jeez!” She lets out a breath. “You scared me to death. How the hell did you get in here, Peter?”

Peter smirks. There's something different about him. “You left the door unlocked.”

“That is not an invitation to come in,” Cora grouses, glaring at him.

“What, I can't come for a family visit?”

“Plenty of family members do. You're not one of them. What do you want?”

“Maybe I'm hiding out from the hunters? After all, you were all so convinced I'd die out there on my own.”

“That's not why you're here.”

“Well you don't believe that I want to see my favorite niece--”

“Yeah, the one you didn't cut in half,” Cora spits.

Peter holds up his hands in defense. “I probably deserved that.”

“You deserve a hell of a lot more. Get out.”

She gets a good whiff of him at that point and her heart plummets. He catches the change in her expression, growing ever more smug.

“I think I'll wait here, thanks. When's Derek getting home, hm?”

Cora sits down. Slowly.

…

Scott halts in his tracks, damn near stumbling over his own feet. Isaac slows to a stop, still a good few feet behind him. “What? What is it?”

“You hear that?”

Isaac pauses. He listens. “It's... it's faint... but it sounds like... like roaring... and... and...”

“Screaming,” Scott finishes.

“It's Allison,” Isaac whispers, heart dropping.

They run.

…

Valerie's phone goes off. She grunts, reaching over to the bedside table, wrapping her fingers around it and swiping at the screen. Chris's arm is hot around her midsection, stubble against her shoulder. He stirs quietly next to her.

“Hello?” she answers, sleep still heavy in her voice and on her bones.

“Val, where the hell are you?” It's Jason. He speaks fast and breathless, anxious. “We found him! We found Arthur!”

“What?”

“We found his hiding place. We think... we think he's got the Argent girl. We heard her screaming.”

“D-don't. Don't go inside. Stay where you are. Wait for me. Send me your coordinates.” Valerie clambers out of bed, searching for her clothes. “Do you understand?”

“We-we'll try.” There's a pause. “We'll try.” He hangs up and sends a text message with his coordinates. Valerie's displeased with the answer, but there's no time.

“What's going on?” Chris asks, sitting up quickly.

“Get dressed. My kids found yours.”

…

“What the hell?!” The freezing wind blows through the gaping hole in the wall. Derek instinctively shields Stiles from the explosion of glass, small stinging sensations hitting him in the back and shoulders.

Crows blast into the room, screeching and molting feathers everywhere. Stiles clings to Derek, watching in terror as they engulf his bedroom.

“Okay, maybe she might be mad at you.”

“She's trying to tell me something.” Derek swipes at one of the birds and it dives, pecking at his arm. “OW!” He knocks it into the wall, watches the line of blood leak down his arm. “What is it?! Lydia?! My blood! What is it?!”

Stiles pulls Derek down to the bed as more swoop around them, cawing and screeching. “You got a problem with werewolves, Lydia? Jesus! I mean, you like Scott right? I know Peter left a bad taste in your mouth, but--”

“Peter,” Derek whispers into Stiles's hairline.

The birds cease, landing in spots all over the room, staring them down with beady little eyes. Derek rolls up onto his knees, sliding his fingers over his shirt. “Is that it?” he asks. “You're trying to tell me about Peter.”

“Peter killed her,” Stiles says from his spot on the bed, sounding like he's being ripped apart with the realization. “Oh my god. He killed her. He _killed her_ , Derek!”

Derek's blood runs cold. “Cora. Cora went home alone.” They topple out of the bed and start tugging on jackets and scarves, panic running on their heels. Stiles dials Scott's phone as they run to Derek's vehicle. It goes straight to voicemail.

…

“Are you going to kill me?” Cora asks quietly. “Like you did Laura?”

Peter warms his hands by the fire, still ever-watchful of his niece. “Cora,” he clucks. “Don't judge me so harshly. I only do what I have to.”

“How did you get your alpha powers back?”

He chuckles. “You haven't even figured that one out? God, you kids are all useless without me.”

“So you did it. You killed Deucalion,” Cora spits. “How exactly did you manage to do that in a beta state?”

“I was _never_ Derek's beta,” Peter hisses suddenly, turning to face her with malice in his eyes. “Know that.” Then, he lightens up significantly. “As an omega, you're right, I wouldn't typically stand a chance. But sometimes... opportunities just fall straight into your hands.” He holds out his hands as if to demonstrate, and his eyes glow white.

One of the fiery embers from the stove lifts on its own and flies at Cora. She barely dodges, and it leaves a singed hole in the sofa and clatters, cooling on the floor.

“You see, a little time and effort really goes a long way. That's one thing none of you seem to learn nowadays. Patience, Cora.”

Her claws scratch into the fabric on the arm of the couch.

“It's a real shame for Miss Blake though,” he says. “Beautiful lady. I mean. When she wasn't completely charred.”

“You killed her too. But I thought--”

“Deucalion did it? Yeah, one would think that. But she was tougher than she looked. I guess not tough enough.”

“H-how did you get her powers?” Cora breathes, eyeing the door and edging to the line of the couch cushions.

“A little research, a little elbow grease, her blood, and of course, the Nemeton.” He flexes his hands, the veins popping around his wrists and forearms. “Purely temporary. But enough to take down Deucalion.” He turns to the window. “Oh, I think we have company.”

Cora smells smoke. She watches the flames in the fireplace start to expand, brighter and more fierce and licking at the edges of the brick.

…

Derek presses the elevator button about ten times in rapid succession. Stiles keeps trying his phone, but gets no answer. “Where the fuck is Scott?” he grumbles. Then, with annoyance, he dials Ethan.

“Hello?” He sounds half dead in sleep, and he can hear Danny in the background, humming.

“Get your brother and meet us at Derek's loft. We have a problem. Hurry.”

“What's going on?” he hears Danny's voice before a click and the line goes dead.

“Well, it's not the best backup in the world, but it's backup.”

Derek isn't listening. He's already wolfed out and foaming at the mouth to get off the elevator. Stiles sniffs the air.

Smells like--

Smells like _smoke_.

The door slides open and smoke pours into the elevator, making Stiles's eyes water. Derek isn't fazed by it, roaring and running to attack. Peter welcomes it with a smug expression, grabbing him by the wrist and twisting it behind his back. There's a brief moment of shock before Peter is knocking him to the ground, foot on Derek's back, breaking his arm from the shoulder. He screams.

“Derek!” Cora yells, jumping up to fight, but Peter knocks her back. How, Stiles is completely baffled to, but he's also too focused on Derek's yelps of pain.

“Peter, stop!” Stiles cries out. He searches the smoky room for a weapon, settles on the poker for the fireplace, grabs it, and bashes it against Peter's skull, knocking him flat. Stiles and Cora scramble at Derek's shoulders, pulling his crumpled form up from the ground, but he's not down for the count. Not yet. Stiles can actually hear the bones in his shoulder trying to fuse back together, a sick little crackle that rings in his eardrums.

“Derek, you can't fight him. He killed Deucalion!”

Derek's eyes are bright blue, breaking through the smoke. Flames bursts from the fireplace, moving up the side wall.

Peter stands up, headwound healing before Stiles's eyes. “Well you've always been quick on your feet, Stilinski. It's a shame that coach of yours doesn't give you more of a chance. Then again, with all the werewolves on the field, how would you ever be expected to measure up?”

The heat and smoke makes it hard to breathe.

“Get out of here,” Derek growls.

“What?”

“Take Cora and _go!_ ”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Stiles squeals. “I'm not leaving you. Fuck no. Never.”

“It wasn't a question!”

“You're not fighting him alone, Derek. You didn't do it last time and you're not doing it now!”

Cora roars, readying herself next to her brother. Stiles holds up the metal rod he's acquired like a baseball bat, game-faced and angry.

“You killed Lydia!” he accuses. “You think just because you got red eyes I'm gonna let you get away with that?!”

“Clever, right? No one expects the werewolf to shoot with Wolfsbane bullets. Easy to pick up from those green hunters.” Peter's eyes burn red, then white. He begins to transform, the hulking mass of Peter's alpha casting dark shadows on the wall.

They're fucked.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to shercocklocked for beta!

**Chapter Seventeen**

So they are facing down an alpha werewolf with the powers of a druid. And the building is burning to a crisp around them. And Stiles has a weapon, but not much of one. And a Hale on either side of him, foaming at the mouth to attack – but neither really has a good win record.

So yeah, maybe he's faced down worse. Maybe.

He likes to think he can't keep topping these things. Because eventually he'll not make it out alive. Not that this is looking very promising in that area.

“You haven't called for your little friend, Scott?” Peter taunts, his voice gravelly as he claims his inner beast. “Some alpha he turned out to be, hm? Better than you, at least. I'm sure he's stuck doing something more important.”

Derek growls, stepping forward into the flames as they lick carelessly at the edges of his boot. Stiles swallows, his eyes watering due to the smoke, clutching more tightly to his weapon, ready to jump in.

“You should've stayed _dead!_ ” Derek charges, fueled by his rage, claws bared.

He's no match for Peter. With his druid abilities, Peter can stop Derek before he even makes contact. When Peter's hands snap forward, Derek crumples into the extension of his claws, blood pouring from the wound in his stomach. He coughs blood, stumbling backwards. Stiles screams. Cora attacks but is knocked aside with ease. Flames roar up in front of him. Stiles can't see. He can't fucking _see_.

...

“Why are you doing this?” Derek chokes, blearily looking up at his uncle, a shadow of his former self.

Peter actually laughs, kicking Derek while he's down. “You really think I wouldn't get you back for killing me and taking my power?”

“You took it from Laura,” Derek wheezes from the floor, barely audible but still completely full of contempt. “When you killed _her._ ”

“Don't you get it? I was _trying_ to do well by the Hale name. After all, since you brought that bitch Kate into the house and killed off the best of us, I certainly had to step up and reclaim our glory. You and Laura weren't doing a good job by any means.”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“ _You_ ,” Peter emphasizes without missing a beat, dragging Derek to his feet by the hair. “You took my power and made a _mockery_ of it! With your little teenage werewolf pack. Pathetic little mutts that you couldn't even manage to keep alive, much less under command. You align yourself with a bunch of humans and a bunch of _kids!_ Because you can't handle your own business, because you can't handle your own loneliness. You're _pathetic._ ”

Derek doesn't deny him. Peter wraps a large, black hand around Derek's neck, claws cutting into the flesh.

“With me at the helm, Derek, I can bring the Hale family back to its true _glory._ Better than you ever could. Your mother would be proud.” Peter smirks. “Of one of us, at least.”

Derek's eyes flash blue, devastated. “She wouldn't want this,” he gasps. “She wouldn't want you to... to kill... her children.”

“You're no child, Derek. You're a waste.” Peter throws Derek to the floor. It cracks dangerously beneath his weight. The fire roars around them, but doesn't come within a foot of Peter. He watches quietly, suddenly stoic. “You should've been in the house you betrayed us in. Not me.”

“I'm sorry, Peter,” Derek whispers, spitting up blood. “Please let them go.”

He's not healing. Derek's not healing. The pain is still pulsing in his body, refusing to let go of it's hold on him. The guilt he feels weighs him into the floor. Peter's right. He should've died. He brought Kate into that house and let her blow up his world. _He_ did that.

“Tell me, Derek. What's worse?” Peter, lifts Derek's head with the toe of his boot. “Losing your pack in one foul swoop? Or having them picked off one at a time?” He kicks Derek in the jaw. Derek sees stars. Then darkness.

He hears Stiles scream.

…

“DEREK!” Stiles screams, jumping through the flame, wielding the poker like it's a mighty knight's sword, even as his skin blisters and screams through the burn.

He swings for Peter, but it's useless. He doesn't care. He keeps swinging, trying to focus on fighting him instead of on the lifeless form of Derek on the floor, or the equally lifeless form of Cora somewhere else in the house.

“Stiles?” Ethan's voice calls over the roar of the flames, but Stiles is deaf to it. His eyes are tearing and his skin feels like it's peeling off of his bones.

He gets knocked to the floor. He slides through Derek's blood, the red smearing on his elbow and thigh and torso as he catches himself. He looks up at the hulking beast above him.

He closes his eyes.

He's standing in a dark hospital hallway, and the world around him is silent.

He starts to walk, familiar but wary, bare feet cold against the tile. He hears Lydia's voice, softly echoing in his ears. 

_I'm so sorry._

“I need your help,” Stiles says, and his voice sounds odd to his own ears. “Lydia, please.”

He hears a heart monitor. He hears a breathing machine.

_I can't do this,_ he thinks, tearing up. He's so scared to keep going.

But then he thinks of Derek, not knowing if things were going to be okay, but determined. Derek, who offered him a hand. Derek, who saved him from this room that he dreads, lingering at the end of the hallway.

He steps through the illuminated doorway, into the hospital room.

His mother isn't in the bed.

Lydia is. There are birds embroidered on her hospital gown.

“Lydia...”

He reaches for her hand, touches it, cold against his fingertips. “You shouldn't apologize, Lydia. You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm sorry you... you've had to go through all this.” He half-laughs, his heart hurting. “You and me? We were just humans thrown into this crazy world and told to deal with it. You... you've been through so much.” He ends up squeezing her hand in both of his. “But Lydia, Peter is going to kill us. I need you to help me stop him. I need you to. I know you hate him. You have every right to. You have every right to hate us for letting him keep going this long, but... but please... _please_ , Lydia.”

Her fingers fold quietly over his hand, but she makes no other movement.

Stiles turns around. He stares at the Nemeton, the room around him gone, replaced with stark, wintery woods. Snow falls elegantly around him and the land is hushed, silent.

Lydia has disappeared.

Somewhere, deep inside Stiles, he knows what he has to do.

He steps toward the Nemeton. He knows what happens when he touches it. He remembers Derek screaming at him and being so damn bewildered before finally finding out that he'd actually died. His heart had actually stopped.

Now that he thinks about it, his heart has stopped a lot this winter.

He reaches for it.

He takes a breath.

…

“Derek?! Derek!!” Cora screams, flailing in Aiden's arms. He holds her tight, dragging her toward the elevator.

“This place is gonna collapse. We have to get out of here!” Aiden yells over the roar of the flames.

“What about Stiles? What about Derek? We can't just leave them, Aiden! _Aiden!_ ” Ethan is not having it, eyes searching the white-orange wall devouring the loft.

“We don't have the power to fight an alpha like that. And we don't have time to save them and ourselves! If we don't get out of here now, we're _all_ gonna die!” Aiden grimaces against Cora's struggling and his own guilt. “I _know_ that this isn't the most heroic thing we could do, Ethan, but it's our _only option._ We got here too late!”

Then, a screech fills the air, and the flames still. The three werewolves hit the floor, holding their ears as the offensive sound fills the building and overwhelms them with its presence. The flames blow from a sudden whirl of wind, die down to cinders; the ground around them is black and crumbling as the sound dies from existence.

“NO!” Cora screams at Derek's crumpled form, unmoving on the ground. Next to him, Stiles is pale, staring, trembling on his knees. He holds his hands close to his chest.

Lydia stands in front of them. Or at least... It could be Lydia. Long black strands of hair hang down her back and shoulders, flaring into what looks like feathers. Her eyes are deep set in her face, bright red pooled in black. It makes her pupils look beady and terrifying. Her features are sharper, more pointed, like her skin has been stretched over her skull, drawing out the long, thick, red line of her lips. Her clothes are tattered, hanging from her flesh, which looks almost gray. It's hard to tell if her skin is actually that charred hue, or if it's just a trick of the light.

“Lydia?” Peter whispers, confirming her identity as he shifts back to his human form, shock all over his features.

…

Scott is usually the voice of reason.

Tonight is not usual by any means.

Scott barrels through the door without waiting for assistance, leaving Isaac standing in the cold with three hunters that could very likely kill him. Though the blond one does look a little worse for wear. Allison did a hell of a number on him. He flicks his head up at them.

“Why haven't you gone in?”

“We're waiting for backup.”

Isaac glances at the house, listens to the sounds coming from within it.

Isaac has never been a big fan of reason either. “Fuck that.” He races in after Scott...

...only to find Scott running back toward him. He shoves Isaac out the front door right before the entire wall explodes around them, the large berserker bursting through with uncontained rage. They topple back and roll through the snow, the front of the house collapsing.

“This place is too public, Scott. The cops are gonna come.”

“Yeah, _that's_ what you're worried about,” Scott grumbles, “I'm more worried that there's _TWO OF THOSE FUCKING THINGS._ ”

“What?”

“I could hear the other--”

Allison steps into view from behind the berserker. She is definitely not herself. Veins are popping on her arms and her eyes are flickering through different hues. Her teeth are growing sharp, too big for her mouth as her body fights contortion. Her nails grow ugly and jagged from her hands and she stumbles forward, unsteady and angry.

“Allison--” Isaac murmurs.

She rears her head back, dark hair falling off her shoulders, and she roars.

It sounds like a cry.

Isaac wants to mimick it.

Scott stands, readied, and there's something different about him too. Something scary.

The berserker looms over them both, hot breath blowing their hair. Isaac looks it in the eye.

“I'm going to die here,” he muses. “Figures.”

…

“Lydia... how...” Peter actually stammers. He's _actually_ spooked. “You're dead. I saw you die.”

“You did. You killed me,” she says in a low voice, gravelly and very unlike her. “Or did you forget that little detail?” She takes an elegant step forward, fury in her eyes, her voice almost sultry as she speaks, slow and languid. “That bullet ripping through my flesh? The blood? The way my body hit the ground? Did you stick around to watch me choke on my own blood?” She touches his face softly with a pale hand. “Or did you run?” She hisses the last of her question into his mouth. “Like the coward you really are?”

He pulls away from her, suddenly enraged. “Don't you touch me!”

She is visibly offended to the point of laughter. “Excuse me? _You_ are telling _me_ not to touch you?!” The ground beneath her feet starts to turn black, branching out from underneath her and creeping up the walls. The elements around her begin _dying._ “ _You_. Who dug his claws and teeth _into my skin_ and left me to _bleed_. _You._ Who crept into my _mind_ and _used_ me!” She tears up, but her voice doesn't crack, doesn't lose its ferocity. “You made me believe that someone cared about me. You got into my head. You tricked me. You-- You don't have the _right_ to be disgusted by me! YOU MADE ME!”

Stiles is visibly shaking behind her. He's watching the world around her die. He looks to Derek and wishes he would wake up, because Stiles feels like he's paralyzed. The darkness around him threatens to swallow him up. It's the first time he's seen it since Derek pulled him from the ice. Now it's overwhelming. He feels like his heart is icing over.

Ethan grabs him by the shoulders and he jolts. Ethan isn't fazed, pulling Stiles to his feet. “We gotta go!” He's yelling over the ringing in Stiles's ears. The loft gives a long, creaking lurch, threatening to crumble under their feet. In the corner of Stiles's eye he sees Cora and Aiden dragging Derek toward the elevator.

Stiles turns and looks at Lydia. She looks so scary, and hurt, and angry. She grabs Peter by the throat, talons sinking into his flesh. She holds her mouth close to his own, just shy from a kiss. 

In a moment he crumples to the ground-- cold, pale, and dead.

Lydia swallows his soul.

Stiles is suddenly very aware of what she is capable of.

The elevator doors close in front of him.

By the time they stumble outside, crows have gathered in the thousands, looming on every tall surface, staring down at them. Stiles knows it's winter and all, but the vegetation around them is dead. Like – not ever reviving. Stiles feels weak, like his soul is broken. He nearly topples into the car waiting for him.

What happens next catches him off guard.

“Get in! Get in!”

“Danny?” Stiles blinks, a little bleary-eyed.

Danny's at the wheel of his little Toyota Yaris, watching as the twins race back toward the loft. Cora flops Derek into the back seat next to Stiles, ignoring Danny. “He's not healing. He's not _healing._ ”

The words hit Stiles hard. He doesn't know what to do. He can hardly hold his head up and now he's got Derek's lifeless form in his arms, unmoving and very, very pale. Tears spring to his eyes before he knows it.

“We gotta get him to a—a hospital or—or something,” Stiles stammers, feeling weak.

“I'm going back for Lydia,” Aiden decides without waiting for argument.

“Lydia?! What?” Danny's eyes grow wide. “Lydia's here? Aiden! Ethan! Come back!”

Cora grimaces, frustrated. “Get him to the hospital. I'll take care of these two.” Cora fishes Derek's keys out of his jacket pocket and tries not to notice the blood on them as they slide over her fingers. “Stiles.”

Stiles doesn't even look up.

“Stiles, take care of him. Please.”

…

Chris hears the sirens as he pulls up on the scene. Not good. _Not_ good.

Valerie bails out of the car before he can stop her, but she keeps her weapons concealed. He looks up at the house. It's destroyed. The damage to it is not something to be missed. But his daughter is nowhere in sight. Everyone's gone, except the police. And the FBI.

“Excuse me, you cannot be here. This is a police investigation--” Agent McCall is already starting the spiel when Sheriff Stilinski butts in.

“Wait a minute, McCall. I know Mr. Argent. He's an avid... uh... hunter. He could maybe help us.” Stilinski trades a look with Argent over the agent's shoulder.

“Uhh... yeah. The sheriff here called me to come take a look. This is... my... er... associate, Valerie.”

There's a bit of tension as she glares a hole into the side of Chris's face, unaware of the circumstances around her and silently demanding answers.

“Honestly, I don't see how an animal could do this on its own,” McCall sneers, letting them come forward. “This could be a set up or something. It has to be. An animal could not do this _much_ damage. Tell me, Mr. Argent, where does your expertize lie on this?”

Chris is too distracted by the small piece of fabric, clinging to one of the splintered beams. It's the same color as the shirt Allison was wearing when she left.


End file.
